A Different View
by Zephyr5
Summary: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile. Rated for adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: I fear Calla is going to be a character you either love or hate... I've tried not to make her a Mary Sue, but Maker knows how well I succeeded (or not). The later smut is much more explicit than anything I've posted on this site or indeed anywhere (for a while), so I apologise unreservedly in advance if it's terrible. Any similarities to Heartstrings are due to that fic being my inspiration for this – don't worry, the two (as far as I can tell) start along similar lines but rapidly head in their own directions.

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: Mildly suggestive themes and violence

**Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

#

He woke from the nightmare shuddering violently, retching - bile only, he'd not eaten the previous day, preferring to push onwards towards his destination rather than stare at dry rations that provoked no appetite. Duncan knew his days were numbered, but he could not travel to Orzammar now, of all times. He needed to find a successor first, a man - or woman - strong enough to take the burden of leadership, and the sacred duty of the Grey Wardens, should the rest of them fall in battle at Ostagar. Maker knew that six months hadn't been nearly enough to repair a lifetime of damage to Alistair's self-confidence, otherwise, Duncan thought, there would have been no better candidate.

It was that need for strength and leadership that had led him here, to the Castle of Highever - almost as far North from Ostagar as one could get without travelling by ship.

As the Grey Warden tasked with rebuilding the Order in Ferelden, Duncan had spent much of the last twenty years quietly recruiting each potential candidate that he could convince to join. Never had he resorted to the Right of Conscription, fearing that to do so would cause more harm than good - with one, notable, exception. Alistair, - the cocky, greathearted almost-templar who had quickly charmed his way into the hearts of Duncan and all the other Grey Wardens. Their burden was great, but Alistair could always lighten any gloomy moments - often unintentionally, it had to be said - and, to Duncan at least, he had become the son he'd never had. But perhaps that had more to do with having known the lad's real parents than he cared to admit. It had made him...soft, in some ways - selfish. Though he'd fought a couple of skirmishes against darkspawn patrols, Duncan had deliberately kept Alistair out of the major battles, keeping him safe. Everyone had noticed, even Alistair - though the lad no doubt thought it was something to do with who his father had been - but the fact that no one had commented... They all loved him; he had come to represent everything they fought for, everything worth saving.

Now, following the tales of Teyrn Cousland's youngest child, Duncan wondered if he would have to make another such exception. Though it was considered a privilege to be recruited into the ranks of the Grey Wardens, the Order had a very military heritage - surprising, considering that roughly ninety percent of the time a Grey Warden did very little besides train for the possibility of a Blight - and though it was widely known that they 'took all sorts', people very rarely followed that to its conclusion and included women. Especially strange when you considered that the Grey Wardens had been exiled from Ferelden entirely because of a rebellion _led_ by a female Warden Commander. Or perhaps not. Perhaps that was the reason that Fereldens seemed to shy away from the idea of female Grey Wardens.

It was true, however, that even Duncan rarely approached women with an offer of recruitment. It was not because of any deficiency in their fighting abilities - women might tend to be the 'weaker' sex, but there were many fighting techniques that were not wholly reliant on brute strength, such as the techniques he himself used. Women...tended to have more ties - family or friends - and less willingness to give those ties up. They also seemed more aware that being a Grey Warden was not something they could just 'give up', even temporarily, to have a family or a normal life.

Teyrn Cousland's youngest child, rumoured to be as adept with a blade as with words - or in bed, as some of the more scurrilous rumours went - was a girl. A woman, really, since she'd passed her 18th nameday and was, some said, the Teyrn's preferred heir. Given that his older child was a son, and likely to be heading to Ostagar along with the other Highever forces, Duncan suspected that the Teyrn would be loath to 'let' the Grey Wardens take his daughter away.

#

He approached the gates to the castle openly, and was received with courtesy and questions about whether he'd encountered a troop of Arl Howe's men on the road, to which he could only reply that, regretfully, he had not. The guard captain bid him make himself welcome whilst he informed the Teyrn of his arrival, before sending off a messenger and returning to his duties.

Though he had intended to wait near the gate for the messenger's return, Duncan found himself drawn across the courtyard to a small, set-aside training area. The tiny salle was already well-packed by Highever soldiers, the atmosphere noisy with good humour and teasing banter. Underlying it all, however, was the sound of clashing weaponry.

Cursing the disadvantage of his average height, Duncan peered over and between the heads of the gathered soldiers, catching a few glimpses of the two fighters at the centre of the commotion. They were using shield and sword, trading quick, furious blows as they manoeuvred, and neither seemed able to get the upper hand.

"Break!" Someone called, and from the murmuring of those around him, Duncan was finally able to work out what was going on. One of the Knights of Highever had, apparently, not believed the boasts of his more experienced comrades about their 'little lady's' skill in battle. He'd been unfortunate enough to voice his disbelief in earshot of said lady, who had promptly declared that 'he could see for himself'. Thus the current competition. As the (technically) challenged, Calla Cousland had chosen the initial weapons of sword and shield - the traditional weaponry of Highever's knights. The first bout, which Duncan had arrived just at the end of, had been declared a draw - the knight had been unable to comprehensively best Calla, and, to listen to the spectators tell it, Calla hadn't even _tried_ to best the knight, simply taunting him and holding her ground. The second bout, which would start shortly, would be fought using weapons of the knight's choosing.

It didn't take long before the soldier refereeing the combat called the two combatants over. The crowd had thinned - Highever's soldiers were to march to Ostagar soon, and the units were forming up for final equipment and supply checks - and Duncan could see the combat area clearly, though he remained near the walls of the area, the easier for any messengers to find him.

"Choose your weapon, Ser Danin."

"Greatsword." The knight answered confidently. Duncan raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was clear that Ser Danin, a man much larger than his opponent, hoped to make that difference count in his favour. Duncan, however, thought that if Calla had managed to hold her own against such an opponent with a sword and shield, she would likely - assuming he didn't simply tire her out - run rings around him again. Possibly literally. Although there _was_ the chance that a greatsword would simply hamper her too much.

But no, Calla, with a slight, secretive smile, nonchalantly picked up the weapon she was offered, tested its weight and then turned away to take her place. She refused the helm that another soldier went to place on her head, and Duncan was certain that her smile deepened ever so slightly when Ser Danin, not wanting to look either afraid or lacking in chivalry, was forced to refuse his own helm.

And then it seemed to be a waiting game. Calla stood, sword-tip resting on the ground, and simply stared at Ser Danin, the faint smile never leaving her lips - though it had never touched her eyes. He broke first, as Duncan had suspected he would. But the blind charge he made was never going to achieve anything. Calla simply waited, unmoving, calling his bluff - though it wasn't much of a bluff; sparring weapons might be blunted, but they still had all the mass of a real weapon, and her chain armour wouldn't prevent broken ribs. At the last moment, as Ser Danin's blade came sweeping down, she ducked forward, under the attack. She pivoted as she moved, putting the full weight of her body into swinging the heavy greatsword. Its tip whipping through the sawdust of the arena, the blade swung in a low, powerful arc, crashing into the back of Ser Danin's knees. Duncan winced as the large man crashed to the floor. Armour or not, if Calla's greatsword had been edged, the knight would have lost his left leg to that blow.

"Break!" The soldier refereeing called again, shaking his head as the knight discovered that his left leg would not take his weight.

"She must've got bored." The soldier next to Duncan cackled. "Normally she'll toy with 'em for two rounds, then finish 'em off in the third." He cackled again. "Like a whirlwind of steel with two blades, so she is."

"She's cross-trained?" Duncan asked, surprised. Though most of the rumours of her martial skill were vague, some had seemed contradictory, claiming that her skill was with sword and shield, or greatsword, or two blades - he'd never considered that they might _all_ have a grain of truth to them.

"Oh aye." The soldier agreed. "Nowt more likely to 'appen when you might as well be the baby sister of 'most every soldier in the castle. All of us teach 'er the tricks we've learned the 'ard way - and there's more'n one of us been right glad of it when it's dropped in the pot." There was a pause, and Duncan realised the soldier was looking him up and down, assessing. "Thinkin' of challengin' 'er yourself?" A faint smile touched his lips as he looked back at Calla, who was apparently demonstrating Ser Danin's mistake to him. Cross-trained, charismatic, gracious in victory and with combat experience - now if only he could persuade Teyrn Cousland to let her join the Order, if she wished.

"Oh no." Duncan declined. "I have no doubts about her combat ability." He thought nothing about what he'd said until the soldier sniggered, and then it was too late to salvage the situation without making it worse.

"Well...mebbe you'll be lucky enough there." If he'd ever been grateful for anything about his parentage, it was that his skin tone hid the heat in his face at the soldier's insinuation. Clearly there was some truth about the _other_ rumours as well. "But you'd best know this." He half expected a warning about hurting her, but the soldier's grim expression was fixed on Calla, not him. "We don't just call 'er sister. We call 'er the _cold_ sister. Best you look in 'er eyes before you go throwin' your 'eart at 'er feet. Maker knows we all love 'er, in our way - but it's like lovin' a blade."

#

Thankfully a messenger came to fetch Duncan shortly after, but the soldier's warning echoed in his mind. Blades were what the Grey Wardens needed, strong fighters who would see their duty through to the bitter end. Love was powerful, yes, he was more than prepared to agree to that. But love was also dangerous, making otherwise sensible people do things they normally wouldn't even consider.

Left alone in a guest room to 'freshen up' from his travels, Duncan wondered how to broach the subject of recruitment with the Teyrn. Undoubtedly he would guess that Duncan was here to recruit, but how likely was he to guess the candidate upon which the Grey Warden had fixed his gaze? How likely was he to object, once he learned that, though he would reluctantly settle for another, if there was another promising candidate to be found amongst the knights of Highever, Duncan's preference was Calla Cousland? More importantly, what was Calla _herself_ likely to think of the idea of becoming a Grey Warden?

They were questions that would only be answered in the fullness of time. It was about the only conclusion Duncan had reached by the time he'd washed the worst of the road from himself and dressed once more. A servant came shortly after, leading him to the entrance of the Great Hall and asking him to wait for a guard to bid him enter. With an outward patience that was scarcely mirrored inside, Duncan waited.

"Ser Warden?" Duncan nodded to the guard that had enquired. "Please, enter and be known to his lordship, the Teyrn Cousland of Highever." Duncan followed the guard up the long hall, finding a less formal meeting taking place than the guard's words had suggested.

"Ah, Duncan." The man who spoke, though dressed in the rich fabrics befitting a Teyrn, had a warrior's air about him, an air shared by his daughter, Calla, who stood to one side still dressed in armour and bearing a faint sheen of hard-earned sweat. "Let me introduce you to Arl Howe, and my daughter, Calla."

"It is an honour to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland." Duncan murmured, giving a respectful bow. His eyes kept slipping back to Calla, unbidden, returning just as quickly to the Teyrn each time.

"Your Lordship, you didn't mention that a Grey Warden would be present." Arl Howe protested, sounding almost alarmed. Duncan noticed that the arl's eyes remained fixedly, almost _pointedly_, turned away from Calla.

"Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced. Is there a problem?"

"Of course not," the arl hurried to reassure his lord, "but a guest of this stature demands certain protocol. I am...at a disadvantage." And advantage and disadvantage were everything to the arl, Duncan guessed. He had spent enough time in the royal court to recognise a power-hungry sycophant when he heard one.

"We rarely have the pleasure of seeing one in person, that's true." The Teyrn conceded. "Pup," it took a moment for Duncan to realise that the man was talking to his daughter, and he wondered if there was a story behind the nickname. "Brother Aldous taught you who the Grey Wardens are, I hope?" Given the excuse of waiting for her answer, Duncan watched closely as Calla tilted her head and regarded him, expression as subtly calculating and cold as the soldier had warned.

"They're an order of great warriors." She pronounced finally, and Duncan couldn't tell whether the statement was meant at face value, or implied something deeper - for better or worse.

"They are the heroes of legend, who ended the Blights and saved us all." The Teyrn expanded with a laugh. "Duncan, I presume, is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the south."

"I am, my Lord." He agreed.

"Of the soldiers we're leaving, I would recommend Ser Gilmore." It was only because he had yet to draw his eyes away from watching Calla that Duncan saw the brief flash of anger that crossed her face. Interesting – was she angry because of who her father had recommended, or angry because he hadn't recommended her…?

"If I might be so bold," Duncan ventured, keeping his eyes on Calla as he spoke, "I would suggest that your daughter is also an excellent candidate." No reaction – unless he counted the defensive way the Teyrn physically moved to stand in front of her.

"Honour though that might be, this is my daughter we're talking about."

"Perhaps _that_ would get me into battle." Came Calla's voice, waspish, from behind the Teyrn. He remembered the soldier describing her as being like a blade, and wondered, if a blade could think, or want, would it _want_ to be used?

"That discussion is closed." The Teyrn's voice was firm, his tone flat and brooking no argument. It was clear to Duncan that he'd stumbled onto an old dispute. Arl Howe, however, chuckled – though he still refused to outright acknowledge Calla's presence.

"You did just finish saying that Grey Wardens are heroes, old friend."

The Teyrn's harsh expression softened to a wry grin. "I've not so many children that I'll gladly see them all off to battle." The grin faded. "Unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription…?" Duncan shook his head.

"Have no fear. While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I've no intention of forcing the issue." Doing so ran too much risk of repercussions down the line, for if the Grey Wardens were to continue gaining strength in Ferelden, they _had_ to take a softer, less threatening approach. They had little political support, and though popular opinion was no longer filled with rabid hatred and fear – the result of decades of injustices being blamed on a failed 'Grey Warden' rebellion – it would take time, and the end of this Blight, before they began to be truly accepted once more.

"Pup, can you ensure that Duncan's requests are seen to while I'm gone?"

"Of course." Came the instant answer. There was no trace of indignation in Calla's voice, no hint of what she was thinking, but, Duncan realised, she was watching him with that slyly calculating look in her eyes again.

"In the meantime, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

The Teyrn sighed – Duncan would have been surprised if the man didn't know, from the pointed question, that his daughter was upset with him.

"We must discuss the battle plans in the south. Be a good lass and do as I've asked. We'll talk soon." Calla gave a curt nod in Arl Howe's direction – the man _still_ hadn't so much as glanced at her – a longer, deeper bow in his direction – and once again Duncan was grateful for his skin tone as he realised just how much of her cleavage she had flashed him with that move, deliberately, he was sure – and turned on her heel without acknowledging her father at all. The Teyrn watched her leave, and Duncan saw him visibly flinch as the door closed very, very quietly behind his daughter.

"You only have yourself to blame." Arl Howe muttered, but far from taking offence, the Teyrn turned back to them with a laugh.

"True, true." He agreed. "But at least I don't have to worry about bandits when she goes wandering off – worry _for_ them, maybe." He grinned broadly and clapped his hands together. "Now gentlemen, let us get to business."

#

'Business' as the Teyrn had termed it, did not take long at all, for the situation in the south was relatively simple. The three of them had then gone their separate ways, the Teyrn no doubt to say farewell to his son and oversee the departure of his men, the arl back to his rooms - citing his need to write messages to his delayed troops, to warn them that if they were _not_ present and ready to depart by the next morning there would be dire consequences - and Duncan himself returned to the courtyard and the training area.

It was virtually deserted now, save for a few younger boys mock-sparring with wooden weapons, overseen by an older soldier. Duncan made himself comfortable in a conveniently shadowed nook and watched. Having seen that brief flash of irritation, he was almost certain that Calla Cousland would, alone or with company, return to the training area to work off her frustration. There was, of course, the possibility that there was another training area he was unaware of, but from what the soldier had told him about all of them passing on tips and tricks, he suspected that she most often came here deliberately for their words of wisdom.

An hour passed, perhaps two. The sparring boys had long since left along with the soldier overseeing them. Finally Duncan heard voices heading towards the area – one of them he recognised as Calla, the other, a man, he didn't recognise.

"Oh please," Calla was saying, "if he thinks I'm Grey Warden material _surely_ he'll think the same of you. Anyway, my father recommended _you_."

"Yes, but it's not the Teyrn who decides, is it?" The male voice, Duncan guessed it to be that of Ser Gilmore, thanks to Calla's reference to her father's recommendation, sounded despondent. "Besides, you beat me on a regular basis now."

"I don't know – you've managed to surprise me a time or two." They walked into Duncan's view at that point, so he was able to see the suggestive nudge in the ribs that she gave her taller male companion. Ser Gilmore grunted and edged sideways out of elbow range.

"I'm not repeating that approach, not after the questions your mother started asking me."

"Ha – coward!" Calla vaulted over the training arena's low fence with deceptive ease. Ser Gilmore, wearing heavier plate armour – and lacking an audience – rather more sensibly walked around to the gate and entered. He was carrying a sword and shield, whilst Calla now held two daggers in a ready stance. Duncan started paying more attention; most of the rumours of her prowess were with two blades, but she had not used them in the fight he'd witnessed. Ser Gilmore, even from this distance, looked apprehensive enough that Duncan was intrigued.

Calla attacked first – probably because Ser Gilmore looked in no hurry to go on the offensive. Not that he was a pushover – the clang and screech of metal and wood, coupled with the number of times Calla backed off and then came in again, probing and probing for weaknesses to exploit, made that clear. In fact, as she had reassured Ser Gilmore, Duncan found himself impressed by them both. True, they obviously trained together frequently, but they were genuinely trying to defeat each other – or if they _were_ performing, it was an extremely impressive performance.

It was Ser Gilmore who found an opening first, and he was clearly suspicious of the fact, for when Calla staggered backwards, clipped in the temple by the edge of his shield, he didn't stop and ask if she was badly hurt, but neither did he charge blindly in to try and 'finish' her. Duncan's eyes narrowed. If he had not heard their banter as they entered the arena, he could easily have thought he'd stumbled on an honour duel. Ser Gilmore advanced, pressing harder and harder as it became clear that Calla was struggling to focus and deflect or avoid his attacks.

But for all she was being driven backwards round and round the arena, constantly giving ground, Calla Cousland would not yield. She was starting to recover now and, no doubt also seeing it, Ser Gilmore made a last, all-out attempt to overwhelm her. It was his undoing – and had, perhaps, been Calla's plan all along.

As Ser Gilmore's shield swept out it was met by the dagger in Calla's left hand. The blade drove deep into the wood, and Calla used it – and the shield's remaining momentum – to pull herself out of the way of Ser Gilmore's charge, simultaneously throwing him off-balance. As she whipped around, now behind her opponent, Duncan half expected her to strike the metal backplate and declare it her victory. She did no such thing. Instead she slammed into Ser Gilmore's back, the length of her body against his, her arm curling up across his chest and bringing the dagger's tip to his throat beneath the helm.

Ser Gilmore, understandably, froze.

The knight's armour, Duncan realised, hadn't been for _protection_, but because Calla was practising fighting against a heavily armoured enemy. Sensible, really, but still surprising.

"See." He heard Ser Gilmore groan as Calla released him.

"I _warned_ you to get a metal shield." She shrugged. "It's not my fault you didn't listen."

"I know, I know." Ser Gilmore pulled off his helm, muttering something else that Duncan couldn't hear. Calla laughed in response, then reached over and patted the knight's armoured shoulder.

"Come on, I'm sure there's one going spare in the armoury."

"I couldn't …" the knight began to protest as Calla almost dragged him out of the arena.

"Father left _me_ in charge of the castle – I'll be damned if I'm not going to make sure he thinks letting me go with Fergus is the better option next time."

Duncan smiled to himself. Though the Teyrn had refused to listen to the idea of Calla being tested or recruited, and though it would undoubtedly sour relations with Highever, Calla _was_ of an age where she could disown her family and personally request that the Order recruit her. Perhaps, once the Teyrn had departed for Ostagar, he might find himself following with not one, but two promising recruits.

#

But alas, few things in life ever went exactly to plan, and Duncan's hopes of two recruits were dashed that night, when Arl Howe's men stormed Highever Castle.

#

Duncan and Bryce Cousland had withdrawn to the latter's study after the evening meal and Fergus Cousland's departure for Ostagar. Several hours later, they were discussing things of little consequence when the sounds of a commotion reached them. Surprised, but not yet alarmed, the unarmoured Teyrn went to the door – and an arrow pierced him in the gut for his troubles. Duncan leapt to block the doorway with his own, armoured, presence as the Teyrn staggered back, so it was he who first saw the insignia on the armour and shields of their attackers, and he who first understood what was happening.

Arl Howe's men had been deliberately delayed.

Fury at the cowardly attack made Duncan see red. The handful of Howe men who'd made it to Teyrn Cousland's study made it no further into the castle. But already now Duncan heard the screams and the sound of combat echoing through the stone passageways. With the castle stripped of defenders, this was a battle already lost.

"My wife and…children." Bryce gasped behind him. "We must…try to reach them." Howe's men had likely already beaten them there, but Duncan knew that it would be a useless protest. Then again, he _had_ seen Calla Cousland fighting, and it was well known that Eleanor Cousland had been a fierce warrior in her own youth. Her husband, unfortunately, was already dying – and both Duncan and he knew it. Neither of them had any bandages or medicinal supplies on them, and even though Bryce had broken off the arrow's haft – as much so it didn't impede his movement as to let him better wad his clothes over the wound – he was already pale from blood loss and shock. Despite the cloth he held firmly over the wound, it was clear that he was in no shape to fight. It hadn't stopped him from taking one of the maces – Duncan had assumed them ornamental, but covered in the Teyrn's blood it looked solid enough – from a display.

Looping one arm around the Teyrn's shoulders, Duncan let Bryce direct him through the castle, travelling along servants' passageways that Howe's soldiers seemed to have overlooked. Though the Teyrn tried to hide it, it was clear that he was weakening quickly. He abandoned the mace, and Duncan found himself taking more and more of the other man's weight.

"Wait." Bryce gasped at last, as they reached a junction between corridors. "I'm…slowing you down. Go that way." The Teyrn pointed down the new corridor. "Family quarters. Get them to the larder – I'll meet you there."

Duncan wanted to ask where the larder was, and why they were meeting there, but the Teyrn needed to save his strength as much as possible, and time was not on their side. With a curt nod, Duncan departed in the indicated direction.

He found surprisingly little resistance. There were the odd few soldiers bearing Howe's insignia, but they fell swiftly to Duncan's twin blades. He made note, as he passed the corpses of Howe men he had _not_ killed, of how they had died. It looked as if two people – perhaps three or four even – were fighting back with quiet skill, at least one archer and one melee warrior, perhaps a rogue. His suspicions of who those people were solidified to certainty once he reached the family quarters Bryce had sent him to. The corpses of a young nobleman, two noblewomen and a young boy told the heartrending tale of a cowardly attack in the dead of night. The corpses of six of Howe's men, and the neatly-ransacked state of the bedrooms, told the more heartening tale of opponents underestimated, and vengeance begun.

Daring to truly hope, now, that Calla at least had survived the initial attack and was somewhere in the fighting elsewhere in the castle, Duncan set out, following the trail of bodies as much as the path of least resistance that had been cleared. He found himself at the armoury, where the door had been unlocked with a key that only the Teyrn or the Teyrna would have possessed. Having seen no sign of Eleanor's body, and remembering the tales of her as a young warrior, Duncan felt his hope grow.

He continued on, his path leading into the Great Hall when all other routes proved blocked by flaming debris. Fortunately stone castles did not burn well, but that was scant consolation in this situation. A half dozen soldiers, Ser Gilmore amongst them, were fighting to keep the doors into the hall closed. From the corpses on the floor, Duncan surmised that there had already been one break-in, pushed back – unless he missed his guess – by unexpected, but welcome, reinforcements.

"Where is the Teyrna?" He called, parade-ground voice cutting easily through the muted sounds of battle from the courtyard. Ser Gilmore turned, wild eyed, relaxing slightly when he saw who had spoken.

"Ser Warden." There was a pause as the knight gathered himself. "They went that way." He gestured across the hall – a wise move, considering the enemy might also hear any directions he shouted. "Hurry – we can't hold much longer!" He added, his words punctuated by the ominous crack-thump of magic against the wooden doors. Duncan nodded his thanks and hurried onward.

#

By the time he found his way to the larder, Duncan knew that getting out of the castle was the least of their concerns. As he had been searching for the correct area, he had passed a high window, from which he had been able to assess the situation outside. Arl Howe, if he didn't _know_ of a concealed exit, certainly _suspected_ one. His men had formed a cordon that looked like it encircled the castle and its grounds – not a thick cordon, it was true, but a mix of men and mabari hounds that would be nigh on impossible to evade, even without the dying Teyrn.

"I'm afraid the Teyrn is correct." Duncan confirmed, sheathing his weapons as he walked in on the heels of Bryce telling his wife and daughter that the castle was surrounded. "Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit, but they surround the castle. Getting past will be…difficult."

"You are…Duncan, then?" The older woman – Teyrna Eleanor Cousland – guessed. "The Grey Warden?"

"Yes, your Ladyship." He confirmed. "The Teyrn and I tried to reach you sooner."

Her laugh was brittle – no doubt she already knew her husband's life was forfeit. "My daughter helped me get here, Maker be praised."

"I am not surprised." Duncan murmured, trying to judge what Calla was thinking. But her face was impassive, her eyes cold and hard. For a moment it looked as if she might say something, but instead she looked back at her father, silent.

"Whatever is to be done now, it must be quick!" Eleanor burst out. "They are coming!"

"Duncan…I beg you…take my wife and daughter to safety!" Bryce gasped.

"I will, your Lordship." Duncan agreed. "But…I fear I must ask for something in return." Perhaps it was cruel, or unfair, to take advantage of the situation in this way, but Duncan was nothing if not practical, and his duties as a Grey Warden were important enough that 'fair' or 'cruel' did not matter. Nothing mattered, save defeating the archdemon and the Blight – and to do that, the Grey Wardens needed numbers.

"Anything!" Bryce groaned, as Duncan had known he would. He was aware of Calla staring at him again, her eyes still cold, but a faint, wry smile touching her lips.

"What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil now loose in this world. I came to your castle seeking a recruit. The darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one."

"I…I understand." Came the Teyrn's reluctant whisper. "So long as justice comes to Howe…I agree."

"Then I offer you a place within the Grey Wardens." Calla's expression was inscrutable. "_Fight_ with us." He urged and wondered again, if he had not imagined the flash of eagerness at the word 'fight', whether a sword would thirst to be used – if it could feel such a thing.

"I accept your offer." Her voice was steady.

"We must leave quickly, then."

"Bryce," the Teyrna's voice was hesitant, "are you…sure?"

"Our daughter will _not_ die of Howe's treachery." The Teyrn stated firmly. "She will _live_, and make her mark on the world."

"Darling, go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me."

"Eleanor…" It was the Teyrn who protested – Calla's expression, though showing a tightness around her eyes, was impossible for Duncan to read.

"Hush, Bryce. I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. But I won't abandon you. My place is by your side, to death and beyond."

"Maker watch over you both." Calla murmured, touching first her mother, then her father on the shoulder before standing and turning away. Duncan found himself hurrying after her as she opened the servants' exit with practiced ease and led the way out of the castle.

She didn't look back once.

#

**AN:** Very many thanks to Thessali for betaing this for me – any remaining mistakes are my fault :P


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: Thanks as always to Thessali for betaing me into shape :D

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: Semi-explicit smut

**Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin

#

Getting out of the castle into the grounds was the 'easy' part of their escape. Duncan had half expected Calla to slow, to let him take the lead, but instead she barely paused to glance around, before heading off with a deliberate stride. He hurried to follow, reasoning that having grown up at Highever Calla knew the grounds much more intimately than himself. Still, he checked his blades and remained alert for trouble. The cordon of Howe's men hadn't been far out from the castle when he'd seen them, but they might have moved since then.

He saw the soldier at the same moment as Calla gracefully eased behind a tree. They were lucky – the man was clearly cold and tired, and not nearly as alert as he should have been. As she led him back a short way along the route they'd come, Duncan thought she might take a different path, however she stopped and turned to him. "Do you trust me?"

An odd question to ask, and Duncan found himself hesitating before he answered. "I do."

She nodded, but didn't seem either pleased by his answer or displeased by his hesitation. Quickly she outlined her plan. She knew they could not escape mabari pursuit without killing the mabari, but they were not bloodhounds, and with rain starting to fall they would be unable to follow a scent trail. So she proposed they split up. More specifically, she proposed that she act as a decoy, drawing away the mabari and soldiers on this part of the cordon so that he, Duncan, could slip away down the faint track they were on.

Though under different circumstances he might have argued in favour of stealth and a few slit throats, time was not on their side. The servant's exit that they had used was discrete, but hardly concealed, and the presence of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland in the larder was a sure indication that _something_ was there. The weather would incline the searchers to be quick in raising the hue and cry behind them, and even if they cut their way out of the closing net, the cuts would indicate the direction they had taken. The weather, and the simple fact that he didn't know the area at all well, made a fast escape, for Duncan, challenging. Even if the soldiers hunting them suffered the same impediments, the mabari, with the greater stability offered by four legs and a low centre of mass, would move quickly enough to catch and delay them.

Calla, on the other hand, had grown up here and knew the terrain intimately – at least, her plan suggested as much. She made it sound easy, the one thing Duncan doubted it would be. Yet no better plan suggested itself, and he _had_ said he trusted her. How could he argue when those two facts were undeniable?

#

Calla's scream shattered the cold, wet night, and was answered by a cacophony of shouting soldiers and barking mabari. It sounded as if she'd successfully drawn the attention of everything in earshot that wasn't either deaf or dead. Duncan wondered whether Howe's men would react as a disciplined team, with only those nearest the commotion coming to investigate, or whether discipline would crumble and everyone in range would come rushing from their posts. The former was preferable, the latter less so…_much_ less so. But surely Calla had taken that into account?

He waited a moment longer, straining his ears to try and work out whether all the sounds of crashing undergrowth were moving away from his location, or whether some were heading towards him. It was impossible to tell, especially as the storm chose that moment to intensify. Sheets of rain made visibility poor, even in the partial shelter of the trees, and the flash of lightning that briefly turned everything into stark black and white shadows did little more than leave deceptive afterimages in his vision. The thunder that followed hot on the lightning's heels seemed both warning and promise of worse to come – though short of the wind rising, Duncan wasn't convinced it could physically rain any harder.

Now was the time to move, before those chasing Calla decided the weather was too much for them, and likely to kill her anyway. So he moved using all the stealth he'd acquired over his lifetime, though it was hardly needed. With the rain drowning any scent that might have carried, he was nothing more than another flickering, unnerving shadow in amongst the trees.

The track was hard to follow in the darkness, harder in the pounding rain. It was little more than a worn groove that snaked through the trees, leading him, he thought, in a gradual curve to the east. Calla had mentioned a small stone hut as their meeting place. Out in the open, she'd warned, but it had a roof that the shepherds ensured didn't leak, since they used it during the early spring when the lambs were due. As he reached the edge of the trees, and a fortuitous flash of lightning briefly illuminated the building in question – some three or four hundred yards distant – Duncan hoped there were no shepherds sheltering from the storm.

#

If proof had been needed that Calla knew her way around the area very well indeed, it came when she all but fell through the hut's doorway, looking like the proverbial drowned rat. She was breathing hard, a couple of errant leaves in her hair, and her mud-splattered armour the only evidence of her exertions. No…not quite the only evidence. Now that she was out of the rain, blood was oozing from a couple of cuts across her cheek where Duncan suspected a branch had caught her across the face. Satisfied that she wasn't being pursued, he turned back to attempting to light the fire he had found laid ready in the centre of the hut.

"Don't bother."

Surprised, he looked up at her – surely she knew the dangers of hypothermia? – but her expression was grim.

"This storm will blow over before dawn, and not long after that Howe will know we both escaped. Not in which direction, but some of his men _will_ know of these huts – and they're not hard to spot."

She visibly fought back a shiver, and Duncan felt his heart sink. "The coastlands are open meadows for the most part, unless you head into the west hills. We need to be south of the north road by daybreak."

Both of Duncan's eyebrows headed for his hairline. In daylight, with fair weather, what she was suggesting was little more than a stroll. In darkness, with the rain sheeting down and only sporadic lightning to light their way – and no accurate guide to their direction – what she was suggesting was not quite suicide.

"Are you certain?" Her response was a decidedly un-ladylike snort – and another shiver that she couldn't quite repress.

"Howe is no fool – he can't afford to let either of us escape and bring this news to the king. Right now the storm helps us as much as it hinders us. Once it stops…" She trailed off, expression grim. "I _won't_ wait here for him to find me – I'd rather die _trying_ to escape."

And really, Duncan thought with an amusement that he kept well hidden, how could he complain of such an attitude when it was one of the things that made her such a good candidate for the Order?

"Alright." He stood, abandoning his attempts to light the fire. Perhaps this was the Maker's will – certainly he'd not had so much trouble lighting a fire for many years, but now that failure meant there was little evidence to say anyone had been here at all. Expression as grim as Calla's, Duncan followed her back out into the storm, and they began their desperate flight south.

#

The rain eased as the sky to the east began to lighten with the approaching dawn, just as Calla had said it would. The thunder and lightning had ceased some hours before, though neither of them had really noticed, concentrating instead on placing one foot in front of the other. Initially Duncan had wondered how Calla knew which direction they were travelling in, until he'd noticed that the rain was not quite vertical, but rather striking at their backs. Clearly the prevailing wind blew from the north – which explained the position of the hut's door – and Calla, having grown up in the area, knew that she could rely on it to set her direction.

He was honestly surprised by how well she was holding up. Though it had to be said that, unlike him, she hadn't really stopped moving since the storm's full fury had broken over them. Still, Duncan knew she had to be feeling the cold and wet by now. Thankfully the wind seemed content to remain little more than a faint breeze, enough to give the rain a slight slant as it fell, but not enough to freeze them to death as they walked. Or at least, he hoped neither of them had reached that point.

By the time dawn came, the rain had stopped completely, and from the way the clouds overhead were dispersing, Duncan suspected the day would be bright and sunny – perfect weather for anyone searching for a couple of fugitives. He glanced back at their trail. Just behind them it looked obvious, even to him, but he could see that further back the long grasses had been beaten down by the heavy rain, and bore no indication of their passage.

"There." The word was thin and hoarse, barely a word at all – it was the first thing Calla had said since they'd left the shepherds' hut. She'd stopped walking, her arms wrapped tightly around herself for warmth, and in the growing light Duncan could see the pallor of her skin, the unhealthy blue tinge to her lips. Following her gaze he found a raised mound, crowned with the ruins of a tower. It looked rather exposed and obvious as a hiding place, but it offered concealment and shelter in the middle of the virtual sea of grass that made up the majority of the Bannorn.

Calla stumbled as she began walking again, but if her steps were clumsy with fatigue, and stiff with cold, they were also determined.

He discovered why when they both finally scrambled into the tower's ruin. There were three chests concealed at the back, under the crumbling remnants of a staircase that was sturdier than it looked. Their contents were…surprising – as if someone had expected to find themselves in dire straits at some point and had planned accordingly. Blankets, bandages, medicines, some hard biscuits and dried meats, tinder, flint and steel for starting a fire, even some rough shirts and breeches.

But whatever reserves Calla had been drawing on to make it there were all but gone. She discarded her sword and shield to one side, slumping against a wall and slowly sliding to the floor, teeth chattering together. Had he not had the dubious advantages of the taint's growing effect on him, Duncan didn't doubt that he would have been in a similar position. What she needed – what they _both_ needed – was a warm fire, a hot meal, dry clothes and sleep. Only two of those were possible, and the fire wasn't one of them. Although there was wood already cut and stacked for a fire, it was as damp as they were, and the last thing they needed was to advertise their location with a plume of smoke.

"Get changed." His own voice was almost as bad as Calla's, Duncan noted, pushing a blanket and dry clothes in her direction. There was no response – she had drawn her knees up to her chest, and her eyes weren't quite focussed. She didn't seem to be registering the shivers as her body tried to keep its temperature up. But at least she _was_ still shivering.

Reluctantly he took a small vial of yellowish liquid from the chest, uncorking the bottle after a couple of tries and carefully sniffing to be certain that it was what he thought. A stimulant – a potent mix of deep mushroom and alcohol – not recommended for hypothermia or shock, but there was no other option. He drank half the vial's contents himself, first, aware from how he'd struggled to remove a simple cork that he had no chance of unbuckling his armour and weapons without help. Then he moved over to Calla, already feeling his joints loosen up as the stimulant took effect, and carefully poured some of the liquid between her chattering teeth, praying she would swallow and not choke.

Duncan breathed a sigh of relief as Calla swallowed, awareness returning to her expression almost immediately.

"Thank you." She mumbled, accepting the vial from him with trembling hands and gulping the remainder of its contents.

"Get changed." He repeated, taking the empty vial and using the action of returning it to the chest to deliberately turn his back and give her some privacy. Duncan had never used stimulants outside of battle, and he had no idea how long its effects would last. Quickly and efficiently, though not without the odd fumble or pause as he forced his mind to focus, he unbuckled his weapons, laying them to one side, followed by his gauntlets, couters, vambraces, pauldrons, rerebraces, and lastly the silverite cuirass. He was quietly thankful that he'd never entirely lost his preference for stealth and dexterity over layers of heavy armour that offered more protection in a direct confrontation. Such armour was even less designed for one person to don, or to doff, without assistance.

He could hear the distinctive rustle-clank of splintmail armour being removed behind him, though the sounds were slow and awkward. Based on the principle of reinforcing basic leather armour with metal plates, splintmail didn't buckle on like metal armours, but pulled on and off like leather armour. _Heavy_ leather armour – and that was when it was dry. Though the leather had undoubtedly been treated to make it water resistant, he doubted it had ever been meant to resist the sort of rain they'd travelled through. In fact, he doubted either of them could have gotten much wetter if they'd just jumped into a lake. Whilst Calla didn't have awkward buckles or catches to struggle with, she did have quite a weight to pull over her head and extricate herself from.

Not that Duncan was about to turn around and offer to help without an invitation.

The last of the sodden fabric clinging to his arms and chest fell away as he peeled off the upper part of the quilted robe, letting it sag around his waist where a number of heavy belts and a reinforced leather split 'skirt' prevented it from falling away entirely. It was mildly disconcerting to realise that he couldn't feel the chill in the air that he _knew_ was there, though he wasn't certain how much of that was due to his own temperature and how much to the effects of the stimulant.

Duncan forced himself to concentrate and unbuckle the belts around his waist. The first allowed him to set aside the pouch with his money and a few other odds and ends. The second allowed him to reach the third, which allowed him to unwrap the broad, heavy leather wrap that also helped to hold the split skirt in place. The split skirts sagged, then fell away entirely as he unhooked the simple chain catch that held them at the front. The long strip of silverite plate that acted as a groin guard – and had saved Duncan from more than one below-the-belt attack over the years – fell away with the skirt. A few leather ties, and the quilted robe also fell completely away. All that remained were smallclothes, linen breeches, sabatons and socks.

He could still hear Calla fighting with her own armour behind him, but the damp thud and quietly relieved cursing that followed it reassured him that she seemed to be winning.

Feeling goosebumps forming across his naked torso, Duncan hurried to pull one of the two dry shirts on. It wasn't the most comfortable fit, but he instantly felt warmer – a genuine warmth, unlike the sensation of heat the stimulant had spread through his body. Awkwardly he flung the sodden robes and the various belts into a messy heap next to the rest of his armour and weapons. There would be time later to worry about getting things dry, and if there wasn't, it would be because he'd died and didn't need to worry about anything anymore.

He sat with a slight groan, feeling numbness starting to creep back into his fingers as he tugged at the latches of his sabatons. Fortunately they came loose with relative ease, allowing him to pull the articulated metal boots off each foot, revealing socks swollen to nearly twice their normal thickness with water. Grimacing, he pulled off the sodden things, throwing them to land with a dull splat next to the rest of his gear. The sabatons he placed more carefully with the rest of his metal armour. That left him with the wet linen breeches clinging to his legs like a second skin, his damp smallclothes, and a slight logistics problem.

Then again, if even half of some of the rumours were even half true – and he'd gotten that impression from the soldier at Highever – he doubted Calla was a prude. Besides, with the Grey Wardens as male-dominated as they currently were, she wasn't going to be able to hang onto any modesty for very long, even if she wanted to. The darkspawn weren't going to restrict the injuries they inflicted to easily accessed 'safe' areas such as the arms and lower legs just for her.

Normally he wouldn't even have paused to think before stripping and pulling on the dry breeches, but…those who used stimulants outside of combat, such as the one they'd both just partaken of, usually did so for one, very specific reason. To stimulate or enhance sex.

Half-hard, blushing so furiously he wasn't sure that it wouldn't show despite his dark skin, Duncan risked a quick glance behind himself at Calla. Like him, she had managed to struggle out of her upper armour and into a dry shirt, but now she was plainly having trouble with removing her leather boots. She was bent forwards, pulling at laces that seemed determined to stay tied, paying him no attention whatsoever. Swiftly Duncan divested himself of the remainder of his wet clothes and pulled on the dry breeches. When he glanced back over she had managed to pick loose the knot and was awkwardly freeing the rest of the lace enough to let her slip her foot free.

Wrapping a blanket tightly around his waist, Duncan contemplated what needed doing next. The potion they'd drunk would wear off soon, by his estimation, which meant they were going to feel the cold again, even if they were out of the wind and sheltered from any further rain. Neither of them had slept the previous night, or if Calla _had_ gotten some sleep, it hadn't been much. Food, and then sleep, Duncan concluded. Given the utter lack of concealment, travelling at night seemed safest, and at least cutting across country as they were, they would gain back what time they lost due to the terrain and lack of light.

A triumphant, if weary, grunt announced Calla's success in removing her boots – the twin thuds as she tossed them to one side revealing that she'd removed both, not just one. A long silence followed, and Duncan frowned to himself. If his goosebumps had indicated the stimulant's effects starting to fade from his system, and Calla had been in worse shape than him, then it was possible it was wearing off for her as well. Or had already worn off…

When he judged a full minute had gone by without any sound of movement from behind him, Duncan risked a glance over his shoulder. As he'd feared, Calla was slumped forwards over her knees, apparently fallen victim to her exhaustion in the process of removing her sodden socks. Cursing softly to himself, Duncan shuffled over to her and shook her by the shoulders. Though she opened her eyes in response after a moment they drifted shut again, and it was clear she was rapidly approaching unconsciousness.

There was no point in giving her more of the stimulant, its false sense of warmth and energy had to build upon _something_, and right now she didn't have anything. There was also no time for him to worry about anything except the fact that he needed to finish getting her into _dry_ clothes – which would include a new shirt, since hers was now damp where she'd been resting on her soaked leather breeches.

Duncan was no blushing virgin – or no virgin at least, he seemed to have blushed rather more than he had in a long while since meeting Calla – but he was as red-blooded as the next man, and between the rarity of female recruits in Ferelden and the many tasks involved with fighting the Blight, it had been a while since he'd seen a woman in any state of undress. Though he didn't linger over the task, and his fingers never wavered from the relatively safe portions of her anatomy, he couldn't help but appreciate the view as he stripped the wet clothing from Calla.

If there was a touch of reluctance in his movements as he dressed her once more in dry clothes, she was nonetheless clothed quickly. Clothed in his shirt as well, because there wasn't another dry shirt to be had. Food was now out of the question. There was no way Calla was going to be in any condition to eat until she'd rested and warmed up some.

And she wasn't going to warm up without some help.

Wattle hurdles stacked behind the chests solved the problem of lying on a cold stone floor. Duncan spread two blankets on top of the hurdles, laid Calla on top near one edge, laid next to her, pulling her tightly against his chest, and then rolled, cocooning them both in the blankets. It was all he could do for now, though she was so chilled that it was mercifully easy to avoid any inappropriate thoughts. For the rest, he sent a brief prayer to the Maker that she would live and they would not be found. Then he let himself slip into the welcome embrace of exhausted oblivion, his last waking thought the hope that the nightmares would give him a brief reprieve – for her sake.

#

When Duncan woke – the ambient brightness suggesting it was near midday – he knew instantly that the Maker was both pure good and pure evil. He hadn't had a nightmare, which was a nice change in itself though he'd hoped not to have one in order to avoid waking Calla. It was also warmer now – much, _much_ warmer. Partially that was due to the day being as bright as it had promised in the early morning, and partially it was due to his and Calla's combined body heat in the confines of the blankets.

Mostly however – he took a shuddering breath and willed himself to remain still – it was due to the fact that Calla was no longer pressed against him like some human icicle.

She had managed to turn herself over whilst they – or he at least – slept, her back now pressing against his chest and her buttocks snugly pressed to his groin. That, coupled with the fact that his left arm was now wrapped across her chest, and his right hand splayed almost possessively across her belly, was an instant invitation to inappropriate thoughts if he'd ever had one. And the arrangement of the blankets meant he physically _couldn't_ distance himself from her – not without, however briefly, being in the position of having her lying on top of him.

He was stuck.

And then she moved.

It was just a slight shift, a slight movement of her hips, but its effect was electric. Duncan closed his eyes and bit back a groan, unable to will his burgeoning erection away. As soon as Calla woke, she was going to feel his arousal and know it for what it was. That was, of course, assuming that she wasn't _already_ awake. Which she was, Duncan decided, unable to prevent a hiss of breath escaping him as she arched her spine in a lithe stretch – a move that both pressed her hips back towards his and pushed her breasts against his arm.

But it was her breathy mewl as she shifted her hips again that undid him.

Calla was no virgin, Duncan reminded himself firmly. Her movements were not innocent in the slightest. Nor was she liable to assume some deeper relationship than they could ever have – not just because of the Blight, but because he had months, probably less, before he would have to seek his Calling.

With a shuddering sigh, he surrendered, and met the next flex of her hips with his own.

Duncan pressed a kiss to her neck, frowning slightly as he felt the sheer heat of her skin. Concerned, he caught her chin in his hand, gently turning her head to confirm what the heat under his fingers was telling him. Fever-bright eyes stared at him, devoid of anything more than a faint, almost feral, recognition. He cursed, and cursed again – somewhat breathlessly – when she pressed against him once more.

Wonderful. He was physically trapped, undeniably aroused, and the cause of both was barely lucid. She was also insistently rubbing against him, whimpering softly every time his hips twitched in involuntary reaction.

"Calla." His voice was understandably strained. "_Calla_. _Stop_." He tried again, with as little response as before. Clearly telling her to stop wasn't going to work, and whilst she was lying on the 'free' end of the blankets, neither was attempting to physically push her away. Still, the confines of the blankets were equally preventing her – to her clearly growing frustration – from more…enthusiastic attempts to make him fuck her. Fevered or not, Duncan wasn't prepared to bet that, left frustrated long enough, she wouldn't figure out the blankets' impediment for herself.

She was writhing like a human snake, heartbreaking, sobbing moans falling from her lips with every gyration. Cursing himself for what he was about to do, Duncan slid his hand from her belly to her hip and pressed down.

"Still, my lady." He whispered, surprised when she froze beneath his touch with a soft whimper. Fear? No…there was a tension to her that was undeniable, but it was a soft, anticipatory tension. Reassured, he slid his fingers along the waistband of her breeches. They had already worked themselves low on her hips thanks to her wriggling, and it was easy enough for Duncan to pull them lower, to push them part way down her thighs so that they no longer impeded his access to her sex.

His fingers brushed through the tangle of hair at her groin, no more, yet the effect was immediate. Calla hissed and jerked in his arms, blindly pressing her hips towards his elusive touch.

"Shh." He warned. "Quietly, my lady." Even as he whispered the words, he was aware that there was the possibility they had already been heard. Her earlier moans of frustration had hardly been discrete. When she hissed again – louder – at a second teasing touch, Duncan decided that she probably wasn't rational enough to understand why silence was preferable. It took an awkward curl of his arm – Calla was almost certainly uncomfortable with the way it trapped one of her breasts, though she gave no indication of it – but when he lightly pressed two fingers against her lips, seeking to muffle the noises she was making, she eagerly took them into her mouth and began to suck on them.

_Definitely_ not a virgin, Duncan reminded himself, feeling the tension at his groin increase as she teased his fingers with her tongue. He forced himself to ignore it, focussing once more on the hand teasing her sex.

This time, as the fingers of his hand trailed down from her belly toward the v of her legs, they didn't pull away, but instead pressed gently down, sliding into the moist heat of her outer folds, passing with a tantalising flick over the hidden bud of her clitoris. She shuddered violently, sucking fiercely on his fingers as he did his best to pin her against him and keep her still. Then he repeated the flick, again and again, keeping his touches light and teasing, interspersing the flicks with equally teasing circling motions.

When his fingers started to become dry, he ran them through her dripping arousal before returning to her clit, refusing to enter her in any way whilst she was not fully in her right mind.

Calla shuddered and trembled against him as he worked her, her chest heaving against his arm, sucking with a quiet desperation on his fingers. Finally, with a barely muffled cry, she came, back arching as all her muscles tensed and then relaxed.

The end of the blankets, Duncan noted almost absently, had worked loose. He fought to stay still, not to tense or give any indication that something had changed. But Calla seemed oblivious, and as he lay there waiting to see what she would do next, it slowly became apparent that exhaustion and satiation had overcome her once more. Her breaths were longer, deeper – she was clearly asleep again.

His sigh was as much frustration as relief and more than a little amusement.

Still, with the blankets now loose, he was free to put distance between them and avoid a potential repeat of the situation. Whilst he was hardly going to object if she truly wanted to add him to her list of conquests – it wasn't as if he was looking for anything approaching a relationship, after all – consent given while under the influence, whether of alcohol, drugs or fever-delirium, was dubious at best.

He didn't even know whether she was going to remember what had just happened when she woke again, when – not if, Maker willing – she recovered from her fever, much less how she was going to react if she _did_ remember.

Ah well – things to worry about when she woke and was coherent. Duncan carefully extricated himself from the blankets, tucking them back around Calla's sleeping form, and set about laying out their wet clothes and armour to dry.

#

**AN**: Right, unlike Fever, in this Calla is very, very mildly delirious, but not to the point that she doesn't know who she's with or what she's doing. That may or may not be more obvious in the next chapter (depends how you read it), but I thought I'd leap in ahead of the yells to know where the 'dub-' or 'non-con' warnings are.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: Apparently there's an unwritten rule that I cannot write Duncan/PC fluff… Again, I apologise if the smut is terrible – I'm out of practice.

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: Explicit smut; non-explicit mention of past rape

**Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; The Calling (Novel); Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information

#

Duncan was dozing, propped against a wall in a shaft of sunlight, arms folded over his chest. He wasn't quite asleep enough to have entered the Fade, or be at risk of nightmares, but he wasn't as alert to his surroundings as he might normally have been. Therefore it wasn't until Calla cleared her throat for a second time that the first coughing noise she'd made registered and his eyes shot open.

She was awake and, judging by her expression, she was fully lucid – this time. Her cheeks and forehead were no longer flushed with fever – something that filled him with relief, since further investigation of the contents of the chests had revealed a glaring lack of medicine that might have helped.

"Thank you." Her words were quiet, but intense, tinged with what he thought might be surprise. All he could think, as she emerged from the blankets – breeches pulled modestly back up over her hips – was how she had felt pressed against him, how she'd sounded, _smelt_.

"I…" He hesitated. Though it might be considered cowardly, if she had no recollection of the last time she'd woken, he was loath to bring it up, to have to explain himself.

"I've known," she gave him a wry grin that left him in no doubts as to her meaning, "a number of men. None of them would have shown such restraint."

Ah…she _did_ remember then. But she didn't seem angry, or horrified. She seemed…grateful? When she laughed, Duncan knew his confusion must be showing.

"I was," she paused, frowning in thought as she tucked her legs beneath her, "fourteen – my birthday had been a few days earlier." This time her laugh was bitter. "I'd been pestering father to let me train with Ser Gilmore and the other knights – to no avail. So when a stranger offered to take me away and teach me I forgot everything I'd ever been told about not trusting people I didn't know." A slight shrug, and when she broke eye contact to look around the ruins of their location, briefly lost in memory, Duncan knew, with sickening clarity, where her tale was going. "I'd heard so much from Ser Gilmore, about how tough training was, that I never complained once. Even when we were drenched in a lambing storm. I just did as I was told – certain that everything was a test, and that failing to obey would mean he wouldn't teach me what I wanted to know."

"He raped you." Duncan stated flatly. Calla looked at him, expression disturbingly contemplative.

"I suppose." She agreed, as if not wholly convinced. "I was cold and he promised I would feel warm, that I'd enjoy it." She snorted. "At least he was right about it warming me up. But I remember gritting my teeth through the pain and being convinced that it could never be enjoyable – not for me. Oh," she waved her hand, and Duncan shut his mouth on what he'd been about to say, "I know better now. But he was only out for himself, his own pleasure." Another snort, as derisive as the first. "That was his mistake – that was when it finally dawned on me that he wasn't an elf to my Aveline." Her smile was feral, her eyes cold. "I pretended I _had_ enjoyed it – that I wanted more. He didn't think I might be lying, he _enjoyed_ the thought that he'd seduced me."

Duncan didn't realise, until he felt her hand cup him through the linen breeches, felt her other hand come to rest against his shoulder, that she'd moved.

"He let his guard down, let me get close to him – and his weapons." Duncan was enthralled, prisoner of sense-memory as she leaned towards him, pressing her cheek against his so that her breath blew, hot and moist, across his ear, along with her voice. "I slit his throat and fled back to Highever. No one ever knew the details save our healer – and she was sworn to secrecy. But after that I was finally allowed to learn how to defend myself properly."

"And what of me?" Duncan managed after a moment, aware – as Calla no doubt also was – of his reaction to the practised pressure of her fingers at his groin. "Do you intend to slit my throat also, my lady?"

Calla laughed, low and husky, and drew back so that she was looking at him, their noses almost touching. "And do what?" She asked, mouth tilted in a wry smile. "I can hardly flee back to Highever, and I can think of nowhere safer from Howe than the ranks of the Grey Wardens – however much of a death sentence it is."

Duncan's eyebrows lifted in surprise, and her smile widened. "Oh yes, I don't know the specifics, but I do know I've never heard of any _old_ Grey Wardens." The smile became a smirk. "Highever is very close to Warden's Peak, as I'm sure you know." She went on. "Our family histories stretch back beyond its founding, and we seem to have been rather close – until Sophia Dryden and her abortive rebellion. Cousland soldiers bore the brunt of the last attack, not only to convince the king of our loyalty, but to rescue – and in some cases destroy – certain documents."

"You have the advantage of me then." Duncan confessed. "I've never heard of such a link between the Wardens and the Couslands, or I would surely have visited Highever much sooner."

Calla shrugged, the movement briefly drawing his attention to the way her chest moved beneath her shirt. "I don't know if anyone other than me knew about it. Father is…_was_ always one for what was happening in the present rather than what was in the past. Fergus was usually outside, training to be a warrior. Until I was fourteen I used to hide among the old records from mother and her lessons in etiquette. There wasn't much to do except read the documents and daydream." She chuckled, but her amusement was short lived. "The archives are well hidden, if you're concerned." She added. "Howe and his men won't find them – even if they spend the rest of their miserable lives searching."

Her expression was fierce as she stared past him – presumably in the direction of Highever – and if looks could have killed, even from this distance, Rendon Howe would have been nothing more than a corpse.

Her fingers were still now, her expression torn and distant, trapped – if Duncan were to guess – between the present carnage of Highever Castle and past traumas of her life. He wondered if she had come to him seeking vicarious revenge, to tease and then deny. Or if she sought physical comfort. Or if she even knew her own motivations.

A twitch of her fingers signalled that her attention was back on the here and now, on him. She was regarding him with a wondering expression, a slight frown, as if he was a puzzle she couldn't quite understand. "So restrained." She murmured, the hand on his shoulder trailing up his neck to his face, her thumb rubbing lightly across his cheekbone. "What are you afraid of?"

That the urge growing in the back of his mind, the pit of his stomach, the spaces behind his ribs, the tainted urge to just _take her_, would overwhelm him – though he refrained from saying it aloud. That he would seize what she was offering with the warmth in her eyes – so contrary to what the soldier had warned him to expect – and be unable to let go, to do what he must and put her through the Joining. He didn't say that either, and somehow he doubted she would believe that he feared being struck down by the Maker.

"You don't _need_ to do this." He said instead, knowing immediately that it was entirely the wrong tack to take as she drew back, putting some distance – although not much – between their faces. "Regardless of anything else, you will be a junior recruit, and I am the Warden Commander – this is inappropriate." He added.

Unsurprisingly, her expression remained hard. "I _want_ to do this." She all but hissed, fingers tight around his growing erection. She wasn't lying – this far into the Calling Duncan's senses often seemed to go into overdrive at the slightest invitation, and right now he could smell her arousal, the pheromones flooding off her, thick and heady. "Inappropriateness be damned. Regardless what happens off the training field, going easy on me on it would be asking me to take a short walk into a shallow grave – and we both know it." Her hand stroked him through the linen breeches and she leaned closer to him again. "Unless you can tell me you _don't_ want this."

Duncan hesitated, hypnotised by her eyes, by the depth of expression on her face. "And if I said I don't…" He managed somehow, voice a hoarse whisper.

Calla rocked backwards, withdrawing from him both emotionally and physically. But as fast as she withdrew, Duncan was faster, unfolding his arms and catching her face between his hands. "If you truly want this," he began, expression serious, "then you should know that, one way or another, I _will_ be dead by the end of next month, probably sooner."

"And I could lie dead before the end of tomorrow, victim of a bandit's arrow." Calla countered. "Such are the fortunes of war. Should we begin mourning for each other now, or find something to celebrate and remember fondly when the time comes?"

"You're wise beyond your years." Duncan murmured in good-natured surrender, and leaned forwards to press their lips together.

#

Cold was entirely the wrong word to use when describing Calla, Duncan decided. Her lips were warm and eager, her fingers flexing rhythmically on his covered erection and threatening to do away with the control she'd complimented him on – or was it complained about? Either way, he wasn't prepared to surrender to the part of him – the tainted part – that wanted to push her onto her back and sate himself. Not yet.

Slowly he let his hands trail down her neck to the front of her shirt, undoing the buttons holding it closed. As each one fell undone, Calla's lips pressed against his a little more eagerly. The last button loosed, Duncan reluctantly broke their kiss, pushing her back slightly and opening his eyes to watch as he slid his hands beneath the fabric, against the smooth skin of her abdomen. To watch as his hands pushed aside the shirt and traced a path up her sides – barely brushing the swell of her breasts – and over her shoulders.

With a teasing twist to her lips, Calla brought her arms to her sides and rolled her shoulders, causing her breasts to bounce tantalisingly and the shirt to slide down her arms and over her hands to the floor.

Duncan rocked forwards onto his knees and used his grip on Calla's shoulders to draw her towards him as he shuffled to meet her. Their knees met at the same time as their lips, and Duncan let his hands slide down her back. Calla shivered, and pressed against him, her arms going around his waist. They were of a height, and Duncan didn't require her needy whimper to tell him that she could feel him, pressed against her belly – close, but not close enough, to where she really wanted him.

Carefully he dragged his nails down her spine, making her arch and gasp into the still afternoon air. He took advantage of her pose, trailing hot kisses down her chest as he urged her to lie back with hands and hips. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back, then slid down to the top of his breeches, where they dipped teasingly below the fabric and rubbed small circles, encouraging mewls coming from her lips.

Duncan forced himself to ignore the growing tension in his loins, focusing through the fog threatening to overtake his mind. He lowered his head to one of her breasts and laved it with his tongue, suckling and nipping whilst his fingers kneaded its twin. Her cries grew deeper, falling somewhere between groan and moan, and she pressed her hips up towards him, seeking friction he refused to provide. Frustrated, he felt one of her hands slip between them, its destination her own sex. The growl that rumbled from deep within his chest was an indication of his own increasingly fragile control. With his free hand Duncan captured Calla's wandering arm, and pinned it against the ground.

Whether _she_ could take more teasing or not, it was becoming apparent that he couldn't, thanks, in part, to his earlier frustration. Duncan abandoned his assault on her breasts, and traced a hasty path south with his tongue, down her torso to her belly, his fingers trailing along her sides, caressing. Calla moaned as he paused at the top of her breeches, willingly bucking her hips upwards as he peeled the material over her hips and down her legs. The damp patch at the crotch of the linen garment spoke clearly enough of her readiness, even if he'd been unable to smell it, or see the gleam of moisture on the tight curls of hair at her sex.

Fingers that had so nimbly divested her of the last of her clothes fumbled as he came to remove his own breeches, control fraying so very, very badly that he only managed to push them down to his knees, out of his way. He leaned over her again, supported by one hand whilst the fingers of the other parted her slick folds, and guided the head of his erection to her entrance.

"Yesss…" He heard her hiss, and with it control snapped.

She cried out as he pushed into her, burying his entire length inside her moist heat. He was deaf to the sound, lost within a haze of lust and overwhelming _need_. He barely registered her legs winding around his hips, trying to draw him closer, deeper, urging him to obey the screaming in his blood, to move faster, _harder_.

He was oblivious to his grip on her hips, hard enough to leave bruises, nails digging sharp crescents into her flesh that filled with blood whenever his fingers shifted position. But it wasn't until Calla cried out again, a long, thin wail that might have been mistaken for a banshee, and her muscles began to spasm around him that Duncan found himself overwhelmed. His orgasm ripped through him, fierce and primal, leaving him reeling, dazed and breathless, uncertain whether he'd cried out himself or merely imagined it.

Beneath him, Calla lay in little better state, her skin shining with sweat and her chest heaving as she panted for breath. She was, right down to the satisfaction on her face, the very picture of debauchment, and Duncan was unsurprised to find himself wanting her again.

They slipped apart as he bent down to kiss her stomach, and Calla whimpered and twitched, although it was impossible to tell whether she was disappointed, sore, oversensitive or some combination of the three. The urgings of the taint in his blood had faded to a dull murmur and he felt smugly satisfied with the tremors of Calla's muscles, proof that she was still recovering from the force of her own release. He breathed deeply, determined to commit their mingled scents to his memory for however long he had left.

It took him a few moments before his brain finally identified the faint, coppery tang in the air – that was making his mouth water rather disturbingly – as blood. "Maker…" He whispered, quickly finding the bloody crescents adorning each of her hips. As if not quite able to believe they were real, he brushed his fingers against the marks, smearing some of the beads of blood that hadn't yet dried, staining his fingertips red. "I'm sorry – I never meant…" But the words died on his lips and his stomach lurched as he realised that a part of him wanted nothing more than to decorate her whole body in the same way.

Calla's derisive snort thankfully interrupted his horrified wondering of whether he was naturally that twisted, or whether the taint was manifesting itself in ways he'd never expected. "I've had worse in the training salle." She pronounced simply, having levered herself up on her elbows to examine the cause of his concern. "I'm sure you can kiss them better…"

Duncan wasn't sure if she was being serious, but he surrendered to the hand that guided his head to hers, and then she was kissing him so softly – so warmly – that he didn't care.

#

Later, after Calla had laughingly admitted defeat to his Grey Warden stamina, they lay together beneath the blankets and rested again. Calla slept – peacefully now, though earlier her dreams had been disturbed, until he'd tucked her head under his chin and stroked soothing patterns down her back – but Duncan lay awake, cornered at last by his thoughts.

It was strange how the mind played tricks. He could remember Vivian, a young mage – possibly only an apprentice – some twenty-five years in his past, with almost embarrassing clarity. The way she'd nearly caught him red-handed, stealing from the first enchanter of the time, and had, in the relatively brief time they'd had before Genevieve – much to the mortification of everyone involved – had found them, taught him so much about why sex was such a 'big deal'.

He could also, unsurprisingly, recall virtually every detail of the last few hours with Calla.

Yet of the women between Vivian and Calla, he could remember almost nothing. Just a blurred impression of feminine bodies, feminine scents and softness. There was tension and then release, and satiation at the end, but otherwise…nothing. For better or worse, he couldn't remember ever wanting to _possess_, to dominate and mark – and keep.

But then, he'd been all but celibate even before the nightmares had returned, and he couldn't deny that the primal, almost animalistic urges might well be a result of the taint, and the Calling. He also, if he was going to be honest about it, couldn't deny that Calla had in no ways objected to his intensity. She'd outright dismissed the bloody cuts across her hips – which would probably be joined by bruises soon enough – and her nails scoring down his own back after that had made him shiver in such a way that he thought he might understand her reaction.

It wasn't the 'holy union of man and woman' that the Chantry spoke of, that was for certain, but surely if it was consensual – and he was sure that Calla would let him know in no uncertain terms if he went to cross a line she didn't wish to cross – then it wasn't so bad?

Besides, if doing otherwise meant giving up whatever measure of peace he'd found – despite not having been looking for it in the first place – Duncan was as capable of denial as the next man. After all, happiness, for a Grey Warden, was usually fleeting enough without actively showing it the door.

Resolved to be selfish for once in his life – if only for the few days it would take them to reach Ostagar – Duncan savoured the sensation of Calla's body pressed against him, her arm thrown carelessly over his waist, her head resting on his chest. Peace. But there was no sign of the Grey Warden's vigilance as he let sleep drag him into the Fade's dreaming embrace.

#

**AN**: I debated adding an underage warning along with the rape mention warning, but considering in this society getting married at 13 wouldn't be abnormal (Calla being unmarried at 19 is very unusual, and only marginally less so considering she's the second child, although the Couslands can only really marry _down_ the ranks of nobility short of the king requesting some sort of political match outside the country) I decided not.

More thanks to Thessali for her betaing skills :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: Thanks as ever to Thessali for being a fantastic beta :D

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: Not much

**Spoilers for**: The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information

#

Duncan woke with an oath, trembling as he fought down the nightmare-induced nausea. Despite the emptiness of his stomach reminding him how long it had been since he'd eaten – anything, much less a 'proper' meal – he was glad enough for the dignity it allowed him to retain. Although he quickly realised Calla was no longer lying next to him…

"Nightmares?" There was a resignation to her question that made him wonder just how much supposedly 'secret' information about Grey Wardens she had read – and _how_, considering it was meant to be encrypted.

"Yes." He agreed, looking in the direction her voice had come from. The sun hadn't quite set, and there was enough ambient light to show that she had donned her armour. Two full waterskins dangled from one hand, and he gratefully accepted the one that she passed to him. "Any sign of pursuit?" He asked once he'd taken the edge off his thirst. The water was cold, and utterly unsatisfying as far as hunger went, but it crushed the remnants of his nausea, and his mouth no longer tingled with the phantom taste of darkspawn blood.

"No." She replied, continuing past him to the chests, where she began rummaging for something – food perhaps. "But then, this place is well known enough that no one would think to look for fugitives here."

"It is?" Duncan frowned, trying to think of any landmarks that he knew of to the south of Highever.

"You…don't know where we are?" Calla's surprise had more than a hint of amusement to it.

Duncan had the uneasy feeling that there was _something_ about this situation he was missing, and that their location had a great deal to do with it. "I've never been here before." He hedged.

"Yes, but I thought all of Ferelden knew of this place." Yes, he was certain those were giggles he could hear her suppressing. "This," an ominous pause filled by more muffled sounds of amusement, "this is the infamous _Trysting Tower_."

Duncan allowed himself to sigh and massage the bridge of his nose briefly whilst Calla all but collapsed in laughter.

He'd heard of this place alright – as she'd said, it was _infamous_ throughout Ferelden. Also popular enough with the nobility for any lowly soldiers to avoid it in fear of disturbing the wrong couple. "I…wasn't expecting it to be so much of a ruin." He admitted.

"Well, it's certainly seen better days." Calla agreed, patting the stones of the wall next to her almost fondly. Her expression looked slightly wistful, and Duncan fought down the twinge of jealousy that threatened to send some discontented noise rumbling from his throat. If he couldn't control that sort of reaction to the _inference_ of past lovers – which he _knew_ she'd had – then he didn't want to think what the consequences might be if he thought someone had looked at her 'wrong', or, Maker forbid, threatened or touched her.

The dangers of the Calling, coupled with this – whatever it was they had – seemed suddenly more real, not so easily dismissed. He remembered, so long ago it seemed now, how Bregan had spoken of the taint filling him up, leaving nothing but hatred, bitterness and regret. True, the circumstances then had been different, but Duncan could see, in his memories, how the taint had led to blind obsession. He _knew_ what it had taken for Bregan to finally break free of the lies and darkness that had snared him…and he didn't know if he was strong enough to do the same. If it came to that.

"How much _do_ you know about the Grey Wardens?" It wasn't the subtlest change of subject Duncan had ever managed, but Calla didn't call him on it. She was mostly hidden in the growing shadows, and as he began to dress, Duncan wasn't sure whether he was grateful or not for his inability to determine if she _was_ watching him, or if the sensation of eyes staring at him was just his imagination.

"About the Wardens at the Keep – more than I ever wanted about their daily routines during peacetime." She laughed, and Duncan found himself smiling as well, all too able to imagine how boring a young – and rebellious – girl would find such accounts. "About Wardens in general…I…don't know." Her voice was hesitant, uncertain. "I mean," she hurried to explain, "I know _some_ things, but some of the gaps I had to fill in myself so…I don't know if those bits are right."

Her admission came as something of a relief. For all her earlier assurances that the archives of Highever were well concealed, Duncan knew that was no guarantee they would remain hidden from _everyone_, _forever_, even if they weren't located by Howe or his men in the coming years. Something would need to be done about them, but for now the Blight was the priority.

"Tell me what you think you know about the Grey Wardens then." He told her, fastening the last of his belts and stretching to ensure that everything was secure and in the correct place before he added the rest of his upper armour and his weapons.

"Recruitment." Calla stated, her tone that of someone repeating their lesson back to a tutor. He could almost imagine her standing there, hands clasped behind her back, a look of concentration on her face… Resolutely he turned his mind back to the task of donning his armour.

"Grey Wardens accept volunteers at their discretion. They also possess the Right of Conscription, permitting them to recruit any individual, or individuals, of their choice, regardless of the social status, social standing or willingness of these individuals. The Right is rarely used, but remains a very real consideration in any recruitment situation, particularly when coupled with the implied forfeit any Grey Warden makes to properties and titles that they might otherwise be entitled to via the inheritance laws of the land." That was fairly comprehensive – Duncan was fairly sure that Alistair would have summarised it in rather fewer words, but then Calla was the daughter of a Teyrn, so it wasn't unexpected that she had considered the Right of Conscription in rather more political terms.

"Before a recruit becomes a Grey Warden, they undergo some sort of ritual or ceremony known as the Joining – I don't know what it entails, but…" there was a brief pause, and Duncan could almost see Calla steeling herself to finish her sentence. "The fatality rate is…high."

"You don't know, but you suspect." Duncan guessed. "What do you _suspect_ it entails?"

Calla snorted. "When I was younger, before – well, when I was a bit more naïve – I used to imagine recruits battling darkspawn, or even dragons!" Her laugh was harsh, and Duncan wondered what she'd initially been going to say. Before…what? Before she'd been raped? "Then, several years ago now, Highever was hit by plague. I must have been one of the first to catch it, and when I recovered, the healer enlisted me as her helper, because she said I couldn't catch it again." A brief pause, accompanied by the faint sound of splint plates jostling one another, suggesting that she'd shrugged. "The villagers called the plague 'darkspawn sickness'. I asked the healer, and she told me about the sickness that can occur if darkspawn blood gets in your wounds, how it's black and acrid, like poison, and it slowly makes you one of _them_. Something no longer human." Another laugh, this one bitter. "I had a nightmare that night, woke myself and the rest of my family up with my screams. I remember clinging to my father, sobbing my heart out, _really_ understanding for the first time why he thought so highly of the Grey Wardens who – except during a Blight – never seemed to sacrifice as much as the legends about them implied."

There was a long pause, a silence in which Duncan was acutely aware of the sound of his movements as he buckled on the last of his armour, stretched again to settle everything, and then picked up his weapons and fastened them into place.

"I have no idea if father knew – or suspected – about the Joining. Everyone assumed my nightmare was a delayed response to the suffering and death I'd seen as I'd helped the healer. So," Calla's voice brightened, full of a cheer that Duncan suspected was utterly false, "that's what I _think_ the Joining entails. You poison yourselves with darkspawn blood to protect yourselves against their taint, but at the same time you condemn yourselves to it. I'd hope there are more benefits than that, personally, but since I should've died at least once since yesterday, I'm not really concerned if there aren't."

"Exactly how old _were_ you, when you reached this conclusion – if you don't mind me asking?" Duncan enquired. True, as a child she'd been lucky – if that was the appropriate term – to stumble across the bits of information that coherently linked the pieces of her puzzle. But such things as survival of an illness aiding resistance to that illness thereafter were relatively common knowledge.

"Sixteen, nearly seventeen."

Maybe _too_ common knowledge for anyone to readily put the two together, considering the leap of context. Not to mention, "how do you know the fatality rate is high?" Any Joining records should have been strictly encrypted.

"I didn't break the encryption, if that's what you're asking." Calla answered slowly, as if she'd heard his thought. "But the sheets were laid out exactly like the tithing lists the Banns submitted each year – names, locations, dates and tithe amounts. That's what I thought they were at first, some sort of supplies list. Only, the last column only ever had one of two entries – and why would something as innocuous as supplies be encrypted?" It was true, Duncan conceded, that the effort of encrypting and decrypting documents virtually guaranteed that anything that _was_ encrypted was somehow important.

"I gave up trying to figure it out and went back to the journals – they were more interesting." Calla continued. "But the journals belonged to a senior warden, and there was one page that was just the same word, repeated over and over – '_why_'. That wouldn't have made sense either, except he'd folded a separate sheet of paper into that page – there were, six or seven entries, I think. All of them had the same word in the last column. I remember at the time I thought maybe they were records of illness, of who'd survived and who hadn't. I suppose I was right, in a way."

"Well, you certainly know more about the Joining than any other recruit the Grey Wardens have had – that I'd wager on." Duncan muttered, not sure what he felt about her apparently calm acceptance that it might kill her. Then again, she was right in her assessment that coming with him had probably saved her life, and he'd seen the coldness in her, the steel that had let her walk away from her parents deaths with dry eyes and enough sense to get them both past Howe's cordon. "I must ask that you do not repeat what you know to the other recruits at Ostagar, however. It is not…customary, to forewarn candidates of exactly what the Joining entails."

"Of course," she murmured.

But there was no rancour in her tone, no suggestion that she felt it unfair on the other recruits. None that he could detect, anyway. "And what else do you know about being a Grey Warden?"

"During peacetime – boring as hell." Came her prompt, but cheerful response. "Recruitment, training, diplomacy, and the very occasional darkspawn raid that usually turns out to be someone mutilating their neighbour's livestock. During a Blight, fighting in addition to that – and dying as well I imagine...I've never heard of a Grey Warden killing the archdemon and walking away. Strange – you'd think _someone_ would have managed an heroic survival…" Her voice was rather more subdued by the end than it had been at the start, softer as she pondered the vagaries of bardic ballads. "Assuming you don't die some other way, eventually you start having nightmares – again." Her voice sharpened, an edge that Duncan supposed was aimed at him, and his admission that he'd had a nightmare. "That's the Calling, and it summons an 'old' Grey Warden to Orzammar…to die in battle, I suppose."

Or slink away into the darkness to become a shadow of the very things they swore to fight, Duncan thought, reminded once more of the brothers – and sisters – he would join soon enough. The Architect's persuasive powers had been its most dangerous weapon, a weapon that had lured away more experienced Grey Wardens than Duncan himself. But then, he remembered with a slight smile – amused as much as bitter – he'd been a brash young rogue, an unwilling conscript equally unwilling to compromise. He hadn't been jaded enough by the harsh realities of life as a Grey Warden to let tales of overwhelming odds and inevitability make him truly consider the sacrifice that the Architect's plan demanded. He hadn't been _Orlesian_ enough – much as Loghain Mac Tir might disagree – to go along with their plans for Ferelden. Or for Maric, the king who, somewhere along their suicidal quest, had become a friend.

"Since you already seem to know most of our secrets, I may as well correct your mistakes – and expand on some of your answers."

"Really?" Calla sounded surprised – though probably not as surprised as some of his fellow wardens were going to sound when they found out. Duncan outright grinned at some of the anticipated reactions his decision – already unconsciously made, but now consciously confirmed – would bring.

"Really?" Calla sounded surprised - though probably not as surprised as some of his fellow wardens were going to sound when they found out. Duncan outright grinned at some of the anticipated reactions his decision - already unconsciously made, but now bubbling to conscious awareness - would bring.

Potentially she had all the necessary skills. She had been trained to lead and manage - benefits _he_ certainly hadn't had when he'd been thrown in at the deep end with the vague instructions to rebuild the order in Ferelden. As a Cousland she would _undoubtedly_ know how to navigate Ferelden's political maze, and if her parting from her parents hadn't shown the steel in her spine, well, he didn't know what would.

The grin died, replaced by an anxious frown as he stared south towards Ostagar. The events of the future all hinged on what happened there, and whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen soon. They didn't have time for him to stand around stroking his ego and hatching plans that might never bear fruit.

After all, she still had to go through the Joining to become a Grey Warden, and even then - though she would interact with the other wardens somewhat beforehand - some unexpected snag might make itself known. Not that the wardens weren't, when all was said and done, as prone to human flaws as any other, untainted, human. But something - maybe the taint, maybe his years of seeing which recruits died, which merely survived, and which thrived - told him that his intuition about her potential was _right_.

He could see her, in the future, proud and commanding in gleaming plate armour, confidently continuing his work in rebuilding the Ferelden Grey Wardens...

That, in his hope or dream or vision, she looked uncannily like Genevieve, Duncan refused to contemplate.

#

They travelled almost maddeningly slowly, but it was unavoidable. Though neither of them had mentioned it, they were still near enough to Highever Castle for Howe to have searchers out, who might spot them across the rolling plains of the Bannorn in the daylight. Since they were both wearing metal armour, the low angle of the sun at dawn and dusk, normally a boon to those wanting to move without being seen, added to the danger of reflected light catching an unfriendly eye. All of which meant they were restricted, for tonight and perhaps the next, depending on how far they managed to travel, to moving only whilst the sun was below the horizon.

The ground was flat enough, but it seemed their path led through this year's fallow pasture, and the long grasses were wild and tangled. It made for slow walking if they were to avoid sprained ankles and broken legs. Even worse, the night was overcast – though not, thankfully, wet – and the clouds not only obscured what little moonlight they might have been able to see by, but the stars that were their only navigational aid in the darkness.

For all Duncan could tell, they might have become completely turned around and be heading _north_. Except with two of them, and neither of them having fallen – yet – that was less likely. Not impossible, no, but they were more likely to drift either east or west of directly south, and that wouldn't be so bad. They would lose time, but they'd already gained time over anyone travelling on the roads.

A heavy sigh to his side drew Duncan's attention in Calla's direction. She was difficult to pick out in the darkness, the deep brown of the scale armour's leather making her pale face seem to float, ghostlike, in the night. His own, pale armour, Duncan thought with a sudden burst of amusement, stood out in a similar way, whilst his dark complexion and hair blended into the darkness. Anyone seeing them approaching would probably run in terror, thinking he was the ghostly body that the disembodied head floating to the side belonged to.

"Are you alright?" He murmured after Calla sighed again.

"I'm just wondering how to tell Fergus what's happened." She replied, voice glum. "He's _not_ going to take it well." Ah. Duncan remained silent, not quite sure what to say. "If it was just our parents…it would be bad, but…I think he'd listen to reason, go after Howe _sensibly_. But –" her voice dropped to a near whisper, "how am I supposed to stop him doing something stupid when he learns his wife and son are dead too? Even if he never learns how they died, he…" She choked, and her voice trailed away.

"Will we arrive at Ostagar before him?"

Calla gave a snort of laughter, the noise surprisingly loud in the quiet of the night – Duncan heard her stumble as she startled herself.

"No. The men Fergus is with are scouts – skirmishers. If I know my brother, they've taken this route as well – they'll be travelling as quickly as they can, expecting to make Howe and his men seem even slower." Her voice turned sour at the mention of Howe. "Fergus will make it to Ostagar, of that I'm certain – Howe wouldn't have expected him to travel across country, and the storm yesterday will have covered his tracks as well as ours. The Orlesians had more chance of catching the rebel army than Howe ever had of intercepting my brother and his men." Her contempt for the arl was evident. "But if Fergus survives Ostagar," she continued, clearly thinking aloud, "then Howe's treachery has all been for nothing, and _surely_ the king wouldn't let such a thing go unpunished?"

"Do not forget, my lady, you are also still alive." Duncan reminded her, not quite offering her a way out, but aware that she almost certainly knew the reason for the downfall of Warden's Keep, and the precedent that it set.

"But I'm only a woman." She retorted. "I'd cease to be a Cousland as soon as I married, and I couldn't have a legitimate heir without marrying." She sighed. "And marriage is what I'd all but be forced into, if I wanted to retain control of Highever in any way, shape or form. Besides, your agreement with my father was that I would become a Grey Warden." Her tone had become bitter, and Duncan wondered if she was really as sanguine about becoming a Grey Warden as she had seemed earlier.

"Only in return for ensuring your escape from the castle," he corrected, "and more credit for that feat is yours than mine."

"I'd rather die trying to become a Grey Warden than spend the rest of my life as broodmare to some nobleman whose first act on picking up a sword would be to stab himself in the foot!" Calla snapped, stopping in her tracks and turning to face him.

Duncan paused, and found himself straining to control two conflicting reactions – neither of which were appropriate, both of which stemmed from the dark surge of his taint. The first, stemming from the images that had sprung to mind as she referred to herself as a 'broodmare', was arousal, a reaction that he pushed to one side of his mind along with the furious jealousy that accompanied it at the idea of someone else touching her. The second, a visceral response to her angry outburst, was the urge to strike her, to bring the back of his hand across her face – an action that would certainly cause his gauntlets to draw blood.

He would act on _neither_, he told himself firmly.

Carefully he tugged off one gauntlet and reached out, pressing his palm to her cheek, defying the urges in the back of his mind. She leaned into the touch with a sigh that fluttered across the heel of his hand.

"Believe me, I didn't mean to infer that I don't want you to be a warden." A part of Duncan knew that his statement was an utter lie, but it also knew that determination such as hers would not be swayed, knew that such determination was what the wardens needed.

She turned her head slightly, brushing a kiss against his palm before she drew away from him. "I know – I shouldn't have snapped. It's not you I'm angry at. Sorry."

"Then," Duncan started, pulling his gauntlet back on and indicating they should begin walking again, "let me fill you in on what you're determined to get yourself into."

#

**AN:** My take on the inheritance/power structure of Ferelden is that it is very strongly male dominated. Even if it is accepted that women can lead in their own right (whether as Queen, Teyrna, Arlessa, Bann etc.), it doesn't strike me, in most cases, that they do so. For example, Loghain names himself 'regent' even though Anora is around 30 years old and has ruled alongside Cailan for the past 5 years. Given that example, I think under different circumstances (ie. no Blight), if a fem!Cousland was left as the sole Cousland, she would be under incredible pressure to make a political marriage (whether of her own volition or at the Crown's 'request'). If she refused, that pressure might then turn on the Crown to strip her of the title of Teyrna and 'reward' another arl or bann. It's this political pressure that Calla is angry at.

In this fic I don't see Duncan as having 'rubbed shoulders' with the nobility enough to be fully aware of what her position would be in the above case – he's mostly viewed Ferelden politics from a distance and, or from the viewpoint of any political impact on the Grey Wardens.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: Liberties taken with the floor plan of the Lothering tavern Dane's Refuge to give it some guest rooms. Thanks as ever to Thessali for her wonderful beta'ing.

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: More explicit smut

**Spoilers for**: The Calling (Novel); Grey Warden information

#

Dawn's light illuminated the fact that that they had drifted off course, though it was difficult to accurately determine by how much. Either they had travelled further than Duncan had been expecting, the flat expanse of the Bannorn confusing his eyes, or the Bannorn itself was narrower than he'd always thought. The Trysting Tower's ruins were a vague blur on the northern horizon, whilst the squat settlement forming a dark blot on the southern horizon, presumably, was Lothering.

"Huh, we've made good time." Calla said then she chuckled. "We can thank Fergus and his men for that when we see them…_if_ we see them." She amended, expression darkening. When she gestured at the grass they'd been walking through, Duncan could see what she meant. It wasn't obvious at a glance, but there were subtle trails woven through the long stems, a sign that people had recently passed by – and in numbers enough that the resilient grass was still in the process of springing fully upright.

Rogue Duncan might be – when pressed to describe himself as something other than a Grey Warden, anyway – but he was never going to deny that for all his stealth his natural habitats were the battlefield and the city. Despite years travelling the length and breadth of Ferelden, he'd never reached more than passing familiarity with nature beyond basic navigation and survival.

But Highever was famed for its scouts; men and women able to disappear into the long grasses of the Bannorn for months at a time, surviving off the land alone. Apparently, when the soldier had told him that everyone passed on the tricks they knew, he hadn't just been referring to outright combat. Certainly they had probably _focussed_ on combat, but a few survival skills would no doubt have been picked up whilst hunting bandits and the like. Which was something else they probably also had Fergus Cousland and his men to thank for – the complete absence of brigands in their path.

"We'll press on." Duncan decided after a moment's consideration. "There's no shelter here, and if we reach Lothering by nightfall there's a tavern that should have rooms to spare."

"Room." Calla's firm correction startled him, but her folded arms and defensive stance made it clear that she was expecting an argument and wasn't going to be swayed, whatever he said.

He acquiesced with an inclination of his head, a reaction that, having prepared for a fight, clearly caught her by surprise. In all honesty, he had no objection to sharing a room – a bed – with her, but he had wanted to offer her an escape, a way to gracefully put some distance between them if she had changed her mind about him. After the way she had been the first of the two of them to rise, the way she had ensured she was dressed before he woke, the way she had carefully kept their conversation about the Grey Wardens – with the occasional foray into politics – and the current situation with the army and the darkspawn horde, he had wondered.

Now with her decision apparently unchanged, Duncan felt a frisson of fear in his heart. It was a fear born of his own continuing uneasiness over what, in a lust-fogged haze, he had inadvertently done to her. A fear born of his dread that he might do far worse, despite his own determination otherwise.

He didn't, for now, fear his reaction if she changed her mind before they reached Lothering. His Calling was coming, undeniably, and the urges of the taint waxed and waned in his blood and the back of his mind, but he was still the master of it. Bregan and Genevieve had been obsessed, but not irrationally so. They had been persuaded, duped, fooled, yes – but never reduced to the maddened, howling beasts that were the more typical ghouls. Part of that might have been due to the Architect's magic, or the enchantments on the brooches, but however faint the reassurance, Duncan would cling to it. For all he hadn't _chosen_ to become a Grey Warden, he could at least choose whether to die as man or beast.

#

They arrived in Lothering in the early evening. The town was subdued, its atmosphere tense but positive – the passage of the king and the army clearly had most people convinced that the situation was under control. The recent passage of so many unknown troops, some of them mercenaries retained to bulk out the kingdom's small standing army, some of them boisterous units of men sent in support by various banns and arls, was also most likely the reason that Duncan and Calla didn't attract more than a few passing glances.

It was no secret that the Grey Wardens were fighting with the king, and the Cousland crest openly displayed on the shield slung across Calla's back was undoubtedly identical to the one her brother had been wearing when Duncan had glimpsed him at Highever Castle. They were dismissed as a couple of stragglers – messengers perhaps.

The casual ease with which the villagers ignored them was reassuring. It suggested that any troops which had interacted with the village directly had done so with reasonable civility, and not the bawdy conduct that marred an army's reputation far longer than any victory, as well as making life difficult for any 'stragglers' such as he and Calla. True, most of Cailan's men were commoners themselves, and Loghain's men were far too disciplined, but not everyone who travelled 'with' an army were actually _with_ the army. Their unruly actions could still taint by association, however.

Duncan wasn't worried that his Wardens might have done anything untoward. Not least because they wouldn't want to face his wrath when he learned of it. They were not a disciplined group – in the traditional sense. They didn't march or fight in large formations, instead they had trained to fight in small groups or individually, accepting from the start that in any protracted engagement with darkspawn, there _were_ going to be casualties, and they _couldn't_ let holes in their line make them any less effective. But for all their lack of 'discipline', he was proud of each and every one of them, and confident that they all knew when carousing and otherwise letting their hair down was inappropriate. The worst he expected to face when he reached Ostagar was the news that, between Cailan's royal 'raids' and Alistair's pleading eyes, the army was completely and irrevocably out of cheese.

The worst in the way of external threats, anyway. Quite what state of mind he was going to be in when he reached Ostagar was a different matter – he was currently sternly ignoring the irritation that flared at the back of his mind every time someone glanced at Calla. Even if _some_ of them might actually be guilty of having less than pure thoughts about her, he wasn't about to massacre the entire village 'just in case' – no matter how much his fingers itched to wrap around the hilts of his weapons.

Calla herself seemed torn between looking around curiously – Duncan wasn't sure why, surely she'd been to villages before? – and hunching in on herself almost defensively. Where she'd been confident enough, when it was just the two of them, now she seemed hesitant and jumpy.

A cat dashed across the street just in front of them, vanishing into the shadows between a couple of buildings, and Calla half-turned, peering back in the direction it had come from as if expecting an ambush. The white and blue feathers of the Cousland crest on her shield caught Duncan's eye as she twisted, and suddenly he had an idea why she might feel unexpectedly out of her depth. It was a 'fish-out-of-water' response, not uncommon in those who were recruited, though the reasons usually varied in the details, and the strength of the reactions varied. Those from stable, relatively sheltered lives tended to feel it most, whilst those used to hardship and constant change took things more in stride.

Calla Cousland, having embraced the agreement that she would become a Grey Warden, was a Cousland no longer. Everything she'd learned about what her duties would be, whether running the Teyrnir of Highever temporarily or on a more permanent basis, was of no use to her now. Later, perhaps, if his instinct was right and all else went to his plan, then she would find those skills useful once more. For now, however, she was most likely recalling the way he'd described the current 'popularity' of the Grey Wardens – which was to say, not very – and wondering how they were going to be treated.

Whether she'd actually thought about how people were likely to react on realising they were sharing a bed…

Duncan took a deep breath and stifled the sigh that threatened to escape. Meditation wasn't something he'd ever truly taken to, but if there was ever a situation to make him wish otherwise, this was surely it. If Lothering _did_ have any troublemakers – and even without a nearby army, most villages large enough to have a chantry had a few hotheads – they were most likely to be in the tavern. The tavern that was only a few yards away.

Telling himself to concentrate on purchasing food and a room, Duncan tried not to imagine the worst that could happen, and led the way inside.

#

The tavern was emptier than Duncan had expected – or feared. Why that was, he wasn't certain, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Fewer people meant less likelihood of trouble, and a quick glance over the few already in the tavern didn't show him anyone who looked deep in their cups already.

"Do you have rooms?" Duncan asked the tavernkeeper without preamble. The stout fellow pursed his lips, openly looking both Duncan and Calla over. Duncan was aware that they both looked like they'd been sleeping rough and had seen better days – mainly because they _had_, but he wasn't about to volunteer that information. He was just glad that the storm they'd escaped in had washed the blood and gore from their armour as they walked.

"Might 'ave _one_ room." The tavernkeeper, grudgingly allowed. "If'n yeh c'n pay."

"How much – and for food for both of us as well?"

There was another long pause as the tavernkeeper contemplated this question, or, more likely, contemplated how little he could offer them whilst demanding a price they could only just pay. "One sov'rin," came the answer at long last.

From just behind him Duncan heard the faint sound of a smothered exclamation from Calla.

"One sov'rin." The tavernkeeper repeated, folding his arms across his chest and adopting a triumphantly stubborn expression. Clearly he had taken Calla's reaction to mean that they couldn't afford such a steep price – not that Calla actually knew how much money they had – and was now determined to only lower it if they weren't going to stay in his tavern overnight.

"For that price," Duncan commented quietly, "you had better be serving food worthy of Cailan himself." Nimble fingers had already dipped into his belt pouch without anyone noticing, and Duncan placed the sovereign onto the bar top with a solid thump, then slid it towards the tavernkeeper. He kept a finger on it until the man met his eyes, waited until he looked as if he was going to start babbling apologies and 'yessirs' and 'milords', and then Duncan withdrew his hand.

The tavernkeeper snatched the sovereign like a drowning man snatching at straws. Immediately – proving that suspicion was still there, behind the greed and fear – he brought it to his mouth, biting down on the edge in the poor-man's test of legality. Duncan didn't need to watch to know that the coin would resist the bite, proving that it wasn't merely gilded lead. He watched, however, with one eyebrow raised in faint amusement, just to reinforce in the tavernkeeper's mind that he _knew_ it was a genuine gold sovereign, and had casually referred to the king _by name_, and might _not_ be the somewhat road-worn wanderer that he currently resembled.

"Yessir, sers." The man hastily corrected himself to include Calla. Duncan was entertained by just how quickly his attitude had changed – almost as quickly as the confirmed gold sovereign had vanished from sight.

"I'll 'ave t' lass see 'bout yeh food an' board."

Which, Duncan thought wryly, probably meant he needed to hastily clear out a room being used for storage, or possibly even turf out a less fortunate guest, and also find something that came a bit more clearly under the heading of 'edible' than whatever he normally served his customers.

With a brief nod of his head to the tavernkeeper, Duncan led Calla over to one of the tables near the large fireplace. He sat in the chair nearest to the roaring fire, the heat a welcome change from the cool nip of the air outside, but more importantly, it meant no one could creep up behind him without him being aware of them. Calla, presumably unfamiliar with the concept of tactical seating – at least in personal terms; it was entirely possible that she was aware of how inadvisable it would be to seat two warring banns next to one another at a feast – sat opposite him, her back exposed to the room.

Duncan watched the tavernkeeper glance warily over at them and do a hasty double-take. Calla _was_ still wearing the Cousland shield slung across her back, even if – like him – she'd removed her sheathed sword, so that she could actually sit down, resting it against her left leg where she could quickly and easily grab it if need be. Let the possibility that they were royal, or at least important stew in the man's mind and it was unlikely they need fear poison or accidents whilst they were here.

#

As the tavernkeeper had implied, it was a lass who brought their food – though 'lass', Duncan thought, was stretching the word's definition when applied to the worn looking woman. The food itself was nothing fancy, but it was at least recognisable as bread, meat and cheese, and it was accompanied by two mugs of small beer.

The common room of a tavern was not the place to continue Calla's education in the structure and politics of the Grey Wardens, so as they ate Duncan instead told her what little he knew about the Hinterlands and the ruins that had once been the grand fortress of Ostagar. That, in turn, led to mention of the Korcari Wilds – an area Duncan had never really found reason to venture into – and the Chasind barbarians who called it home, but sometimes could be seen acting as guards for merchant caravans across Ferelden.

Calla listened with a quiet intensity that, Duncan was surprised to realise, very much resembled Alistair when he suspected he was going to be quizzed later on a topic of conversation. Now and then she would interject with a question, but it seemed clear that she was hoping to minimise her uncertainty and confusion by learning what she could of Ostagar and the situation there before they arrived – without, at the same time, outright asking him what to expect or for reassurance.

That sort of independent determination was a good trait – so long as it wasn't carried too far. Yes, she was willing to learn from others and to teach what she knew, but was she willing to seek help and information when it wasn't volunteered?

As he considered this potential flaw, and various possible scenarios for determining whether it existed – and how to correct it if it did – the tavern door opened for the first time that night since they had arrived. A veteran of self-preservation, Duncan had long ago learned how to tell trouble when it walked into a room. These men – five in total – were not just trouble, but Trouble. From the suddenly uneasy look on the tavernkeeper's face, they weren't unknown or unexpected either. In fact, Duncan had to wonder if they were the reason the tavernkeeper had been torn between greed and throwing him and Calla out.

Certainly, from the nauseous expression as the tavernkeeper spoke to the group's apparent leader – a slim, weasel-like man – he was having second thoughts now.

"Trouble?" Calla's voice was low and her eyes flickered from side to side, but to her credit she hadn't turned to look behind her.

"Maybe," Duncan agreed. "The tavernkeeper seems to know them – they could be locals." Or they could be deserters from the army. The tavernkeeper struck Duncan as a man who was a fast learner when motivated by the threat of harm to him or his establishment. The few skirmishes Cailan's army had already won against the darkspawn had probably been just enough for certain elements to decide they wanted no part in a pitched battle against such foes, as well as giving them a somewhat arrogant swagger when faced with less monstrous opponents.

The weasel-like bandit glanced over at their table, and Duncan deliberately and calmly met his gaze. After a moment the other man turned back to the tavernkeeper with a laugh, then gestured at his fellows to go and sit down.

Somehow Duncan didn't think that was the end of it.

He was proven right when the bandit turned back towards them, a confident smirk on his face. Duncan sat straighter in his chair, relaxed, but ready to grab his weapons at a moment's notice. In his peripheral vision he saw Calla's arms drop into her lap, and he could imagine her fingers curling around the hilt of her own sword in readiness.

"So nice to see new faces in town." The bandit's voice was smooth, almost cultured. "Finbar," the offhand gesture towards the tavernkeeper suggested that this was his name, "tells me you've persuaded him to let you have a room?"

"The rooms are his to rent, are they not?" Duncan asked in reply, refusing to rise to the rogue's bait.

"True, true." The other man chuckled. "Still, it seems a tad unfair that those of us who'll now have to share a room won't be compensated…in any way."

"It's no business of mine how the man runs his own tavern." Duncan shrugged, trying to keep his tone casual even as his eyes narrowed. The bandit seemed very confident – theoretically he had the advantage of numbers, though he was too far from his men for them to be able to reach him in time – and the way his gaze slid briefly to Calla left Duncan with no doubts as to what 'compensation' he would suggest next.

"Perhaps I should rephrase that." The rogue said, expression no longer jovial. "Your...friend," his hands dropped onto Calla's shoulders, making her jump in surprise, "_is_ going to come and…entertain us. For a while."

Duncan was surprised, not by the utter fury that swept over him when the other man dared to touch Calla, but by how completely cold and calculating that fury was. It was no red haze of berserker madness, no instant loss of control, rather it was pure, vicious, distilled _rage_. Outrage. How _dare_ this stranger presume to touch what was his.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine and a sick feeling to his throat. Calla was not an object to be owned. She also – as a very quick glance at her expression showed him – looked tense, ready to turn on the man behind her in a decidedly deadly fashion…

But the bandit, Duncan realised, wasn't treating her as any kind of potential threat. In fact, despite the shield on her back, he seemed completely oblivious to the sword resting against Calla's thigh.

"Well, since we seem to be in agreement." Apparently the lack of protest had been interpreted as agreement, though Duncan knew it couldn't have been further from it. "Come along my dear, I assure you, we'll only bite if you ask nicely." The bandit stepped back, giving Calla room to stand, though one hand remained on her shoulder – presumably in case she tried to make a run for it.

Her face twisted in an angry scowl, Calla rose and turned, but if the bandit had been half-prepared for some sort of attack, he had clearly anticipated a right-handed slap or punch, and so the sword pommel that slammed into his jaw from the left caught him utterly by surprise. He dropped with a pained cry, stunned for just long enough that Calla had her sword at his throat – and one foot dangerously poised over his groin – before he could react.

"If I have to warn you again, it'll be in blood – _yours_." She snarled at him.

Duncan could just see the bandit's face, the skin chalk-pale beneath the dirt, his expression satisfyingly terrified.

"Y-Yes, of course!"

Calla's sword returned to its sheath and then its place across her back with a few practised motions, allowing the bandit to scrabble backwards across the floor, before quickly getting to his feet. For a moment Duncan wondered if he would call his men and press the issue – half _wanted_ him to, as an excuse to see blood run – but the rogue seemed to think better of it. Instead he hurried away with what shreds of dignity remained, chivvying his fellow bandits with him out of the tavern.

With the departure of the bandits, Duncan turned his attention back to the tavernkeeper, who was staring at Calla like a rabbit who'd just felt the hawk's shadow pass over it. The curtailed excitement seemed like as good a cue as any to head to their room for the night, and Duncan returned his own sword to its place as he stood, the casual gesture making the worried tavernkeeper swallow nervously, gaze flicking back and forth between the two of them, as if uncertain who was the greater threat.

"So Finbar, the room?" Duncan forced his voice to remain neutral, the casual use of the tavernkeeper's name the only indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

"T-this way, sers." The tavernkeeper stammered, hurriedly leading them out of the common room, down a short corridor lined with doors. He led them to the last door, at the very end of the corridor, unlocked it – after two attempts to get the key in the lock, his hands were shaking so badly – and passed the key to Duncan with an odd sort of bow that wasn't quite a duck of the head or a bend of the knees or waist, but a strange combination of all three.

"I trust we won't be disturbed." Duncan murmured, well aware that thieves in the night were a distinct threat in some places,. Plus the bandits from the common room bore consideration.

"No ser!" Finbar exclaimed, as if he'd just been insulted. "Three outside walls – yeh'll not 'ear a thin' from t'other rooms. Nor," the tavernkeeper added slyly, "they from yeh, a'course."

Duncan glared at the tavernkeeper and held the door open for Calla to proceed him into the room. Finbar, apparently realising he'd presumed too far in his comments, babbled a few hasty apologies that Duncan didn't really hear, and then made a hasty retreat back to the safety of the common room. With a faint sigh of relief, Duncan followed Calla into the room, automatically shutting and locking the door behind him.

For a moment after he turned the key, Duncan rested his weight against the door, mentally shoving his reactions to various events that night to the back of his mind, telling himself repeatedly that he wasn't going to grab Calla and fuck her until she couldn't remember her own name. Not just because some stranger had laid his hands on her and intimated…

"Duncan?" Her voice sounded so close behind him that he couldn't help but turn, though he knew his expression was probably showing the strain of his thoughts. She was further away than he'd expected, and even with the shadows cast by the fire behind her, he could see the hesitant uncertainty on her face.

Was she finally having second thoughts? So be it.

"I'll sleep on the floor if you wish." He stated, reminding himself that what memories he had should be more than enough for the little time he had left. It was comfort cold as the south wind.

"No – I…" She took a half step towards him, aborting the movement with a shake of her head. "I…Maker…" One hand came up to her face as she pinched the bridge of her nose, expression torn. "I'm very good at kicking men _out_ of my bed." Her words were barely more than a whisper, the tone of voice suggesting that she was speaking to herself. She took a deep breath, folding her arms and lifting her head – though she couldn't quite meet his eyes. Duncan thought she might even be blushing, though the shadows made it hard to tell. "I want to know if you want to be in _my_ bed, or if any bed would do."

The words came out in a rush, and now Duncan was certain that she was blushing, despite her adamant stance. She was, he realised, asking the question that he'd been avoiding with all his thoughts of the taint, and the Calling, and everything except _this_.

"I could ask the same of you." The response slipped from his lips involuntarily, and he cursed himself for a fool as she visibly flinched.

"Yes…you could." Calla agreed, her shoulders hunching inwards as she half-turned away from him, her arms wrapping around her waist in an awkward self-hug. "Maybe I should've gone with that bandit, just…let them take me."

"Done nothing, like me. That's what you mean." Duncan's words were bitter, but there was anger as well. "What do you want to hear? That the only things I could think of doing all resulted in the common room redecorated in red? Because they did. _Not_ a good image for the Grey Wardens."

Calla laughed, cold and humourless. "Of course, the image of the Grey Wardens is paramount. I understand – _Commander_." The title, his by right, though so very rarely used, cut him to the quick.

"No." He disagreed flatly. "You don't."

The metal gauntlets of his armour hit the floor one after the other, echoing the sound of his sabatons on the wooden boards as he strode across the room to where Calla was standing. By the time she turned, equal parts startled and unhappy, he was right in front of her, his hands capturing her head and preventing her from moving away. She froze, arms half raised as if to ward him off or push him away, the faintest hint of fear in her expression.

"You don't understand _anything_." He repeated in a near whisper.

#

The kiss was more intense than Duncan had expected. He poured everything into it, everything he couldn't say, could barely think. All the anger, the bitterness, the selfish want, the desperation of a man realising just what happiness was on the cusp of an inevitable death.

And Calla met his intensity, matched it, demanded more.

When they finally parted – all of maybe an inch – they were both panting for breath. Duncan found his fingers buried in the short strands of her hair, and was vaguely aware that she a grip on his shoulders, though the heavy pauldrons meant he couldn't feel it except as a vague, downward pressure.

Calla moved first, releasing his shoulders so that she could discard her own gloves to one side, then sliding her hands around the back of his neck. As she pressed softer, encouraging kisses against his lips, Duncan felt her fingers working deftly at the leather tie securing his hair. Loosened, it fell away with a couple of firm tugs, and he groaned at the feeling of her fingertips against his scalp.

It had been a long time since he'd worn his hair down, and the sensation of the loose strands drifting against his face sent his mind reeling briefly into the past. His armour had been lighter then – easier to remove, for all its fancy buckles. He half wished he was wearing it now, all too aware of how awkward his heavy silverite upper armour was to remove, of how frustrating the layers of belts and skirts and padded clothing were going to be in no short space of time.

But for all the intensity still heavy around them, Duncan felt almost peaceful. They had said everything that needed to be said. Without speaking a word.

He stepped away from Calla, her protest dying unspoken as she watched his hands go to the straps of his weapon harness, unbuckling it and laying it to one side. Next he tackled the buckles of his couters, unfastening and discarding the metal elbow-guards. Pauldrons followed, then vambraces and rerebraces. As he twisted to undo the fastenings along one side of the silverite cuirass, Duncan felt pressure against the other side, a quick glance confirming that Calla had moved to undo the catches there. That done, she helped him out of the heavy armour and set it carefully to one side.

Then, though she licked her lips and clearly debated helping with the rest, she visibly steeled herself and, with a wicked smirk, stepped away once more. A deep breath brought with it the faintest scent of her arousal.

Belts fell away as if by magic, buckles undone in record time by fingers that needed no further encouragement about the task. Wrap and leather skirt dropped to the floor with heavy thumps, the silverite strip chiming as it struck first one and then the other sabaton. Those came off next, his socks with them, all discarded to one side.

"You're overdressed." He murmured to Calla, finding, as he straightened, that she was still fully clothed – with the exception of her gloves.

She snorted, clearly amused. "Says the man with _how many_ layers?" She retorted. "Some of us got dressed in a bit more of a hurry." She was talking about the surprise attack on Highever, Duncan knew, but he forbore from pointing out that, technically, he hadn't gotten dressed at all that night, since he'd never gotten _undressed_.

"Overdressed," he repeated, easily undoing the ties of his quilted robe and letting it slide to the floor, leaving him in breeches and smallclothes. Calla laughed quietly, but her fingers made short work of discarding her weapons.

Duncan watched as she struggled out of the tight-fitting splint jerkin, amused by the extra writhing she was doing for his benefit – she'd managed to get out of the same armour whilst half frozen and in no condition for such acrobatics, after all. Not that he was unappreciative of the way it showed her suppleness to good effect, the growing tent in his breeches attested firmly enough to that.

Teasingly she bent at the waist as she worked her head free of the leather armour, then turned her back to him before she discarded it entirely, grinning over her shoulder. It took a moment before he realised what she'd been implying with her comment about hurried dressing. She hadn't had time to throw on a shirt, which wasn't so much of a problem with leather armour, and neither had she had time to put on a breastband.

The realisation that she'd been walking around all this time, not just next to him but next to everyone else, with only a layer of thin metal and leather covering her naked skin, hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. For a moment he was utterly breathless, both absolutely furious at how vulnerable she'd been – though he knew the reaction was irrational – and suddenly so turned on it was _painful_. He flushed, head to toe, and shivered, wondering how insane he must be to be so jealous of a piece of armour.

Calla bent at the waist again, almost double this time as she loosened the ties of her boots. Duncan admired the way the firelight flickered across the curve of her ass and let himself imagine his hands running across it, but forced himself to remain where he was. Finally she straightened, kicking first one and then the other boot away to the side of the room, lifting each leg in turn to peel off her socks and lob them after the boots. Then she paused, looked at Duncan over her shoulder, and slowly brought her hands to the belt of her splint breeches.

Duncan let out a low hiss of breath and quickly stepped over his discarded clothes to join her, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her back, flush against him. Her head fell backwards against his shoulder, hands stilling under his, and he buried his face in her neck, content to just breathe in the scent of her – and her arousal – whilst he strove for control.

After a moment his fingers drifted to the buckle he'd stopped her from undoing and released it, pushing the waistband of the splint breeches over her hips and letting gravity drag them the rest of the way to the floor. His hands trailed upwards, briefly cupping her breasts before continuing to her shoulders. Pressing gentle kisses along the length of her neck, Duncan smoothed his palms down her arms, feeling the muscles soft and relaxed beneath the skin, the calluses on her shield arm that her relatively light armour had failed to protect her from.

He twined their fingers together, drawing her left hand across her hip to splay over her belly, pressing her back against him. Her right hand he guided along the waistband of her smallclothes, then down beneath them to the slick warmth of her sex. They gasped in unison, Calla shivering against him as their joined fingers fought to stimulate her clit, the uncertainty of whose fingers were pressing against what, how hard, for how long, and when it would change again, overwhelmingly erotic. Hips prevented from movement by the hands at her belly, fingers inextricably caught and controlled by Duncan's, all Calla could do was moan and whimper and pant and tremble helplessly.

She came with a keening wail, shuddering in his arms and throwing her head back so far that it seemed her neck must break.

As she relaxed Duncan let her draw their joined right hands up the length of her body to her mouth. It was his turn to shiver as she slowly licked their fingers clean of the evidence of her orgasm.

Satisfied, Calla turned in his arms, forcing Duncan to reluctantly release her from his grip. She stepped out of the fallen breeches as she turned, kicking them off to one side and her hands came to rest on his shoulders, head tilted in invitation for a kiss. He obliged, pressing their lips together, gasping slightly as the hardened nipples of her breasts brushed against his chest. Her tongue swept into the opening and Duncan groaned, the taste of her overpowering his senses.

Too soon she pulled away, hands and lips sliding down his chest, his abdomen. As she knelt, fingering the waistband of his breeches and looking up at him with a wicked gleam in her eyes, Duncan realised what she intended. His breath hissed out, stomach muscles clenching in anticipation as she carefully freed his erection from its confines, letting it stand, swollen and proud, as she pulled breeches and smallclothes to the floor.

Hands resting against his thighs, Calla flattened her tongue against his manhood and licked a broad stripe from base to head. Duncan fought to remember to breathe, to keep his hands from going to her head and fisting in her hair. The reward for his restraint was another painfully teasing lick, this time continuing in a swirling motion through the pre-come gathering at the tip.

Duncan moaned, finding his fingers buried in her hair. Calla's hands had moved to his hips, her fingers digging into his flesh. If they were there to keep him still, they failed – his hips flexed involuntarily as his erection was consumed by the wet heat of her mouth. She relaxed against his invasion, and whether she moaned, groaned or hummed Duncan neither knew nor cared, but the vibrations of it and the fluttering of her throat muscles drew a choked, wordless cry from his lips.

He was moving spasmodically against her, control too frayed to hold him still. Dimly he registered that one of her hands had moved from his hip, but it didn't matter until he felt it massaging his balls.

"Calla…" The extra stimulation was too much, overwhelming his control, his attempt at a warning. With a deep groan Duncan came, panting as he watched Calla on her knees, swallowing rapidly with an expression of ecstasy on her face.

He drew her upright once more as his breaths evened out, crushing their lips together, his tongue demanding an entry that she willingly gave. Her mouth was thick with the taste of him, slightly bitter, slightly salty, but not unpleasant for all that.

She moaned and leaned into him, her hands running up and down his back over the dips and hollows of his muscles, the patches of smooth and rough skin that paid silent testimony to past battles.

Duncan's arms wrapped loosely around Calla's waist, his hands content to mould against the small of her back. Her skin was unblemished save for the still-healing crescents that he'd inflicted on her the previous day. There would be no such marks imprinted in her flesh tonight, of that much Duncan was thankfully certain. Whatever possessive fury had woken in him at the bandits' actions, that first, almost violent kiss had bled it away to nothingness, the angry boil of his blood stilled, the savage beast of the taint soothed.

Whatever else passed between them afterwards, tonight was his, Duncan the _man's_, not Duncan the Grey Warden's, or whatever the Calling sought to make him.

#

Feeling himself recovering, stiffening towards full hardness once more, Duncan gently guided Calla backwards to the room's bed, careful to ensure neither of them tripped over the discarded clothing in their path. Though she had probably guessed where they were heading, their arrival still seemed to take Calla by surprise, the sudden obstruction at the back of her knees causing her to sit down with a distinct lack of grace.

One hand came to her mouth, not quite stifling her amusement and doing nothing to hide the mirth in her eyes. He grinned, and took the opportunity to openly admire the picture she made, sprawled across the bed, firelight painting the lines and planes of her body in shimmering light and dancing shadow. Calla preened under his gaze, deliberately arching her spine as she moved backwards so that she was lying fully on the mattress, her head resting against the pillows.

She was still wearing her smallclothes.

Duncan leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to the soft skin below her navel, then drew back and hooked his fingers in the waistband of her remaining attire. He pulled the fabric down over her hips, letting his hands smooth over the curves of her rear, the muscles of her thighs and calves, and finally over her feet.

Discarding the material to one side, Duncan slowly crawled up the bed, caressing and kissing his way up Calla's body. She whimpered in disappointment as he followed the crease of her thigh, avoiding the centre of her need, but seemed content to let him take his time. Each scabbed crescent on both her hips received an apologetic brush of his lips before he continued upwards, palms bumping gently over the ridges of her ribs until they reached the swell of her breasts.

Not over-generously endowed – as was to be expected of a woman who was clearly more inclined to an active, almost brutal life than a typical noblewoman's life of leisure – Calla's breasts nonetheless made a firm, pleasant handful. She sighed, back arching slightly as he teased her nipples with his thumbs, one of her hands skimming up the line of his arm, across his shoulder and up the back of his neck. That same hand feathered itself through his hair, fingers massaging his scalp and pulling him closer as he began to suckle and tease first one breast and then the other, laving her nipples with his tongue and scraping them lightly with his teeth.

As her breathing began to deepen, Duncan stretched up the last, short distance, kissing and nibbling a path up her chest and neck until they were aligned, head to toe. Face buried in her neck, he let his weight press their hips together. She shifted, thighs parting a little further, and they both groaned at the resulting sensation.

Calla's free hand skimmed down his side, nudging at his hip in wordless command. Obedient to her wishes, Duncan pushed himself up, his breath shuddering across her shoulder as she reached between them and carefully guided him to her entrance. One long, slow push and he was deep inside, both of them trembling with the effort of remaining still. Calla's hand had retreated to his waist, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, and each of her trembling breaths pressed her breasts firmly against his chest.

After a moment, feeling the slight relaxation of her tense muscles, Duncan braced some of his weight on his forearms and, as slowly as he could bear, withdrew almost entirely. Calla let out a choked cry as he pushed back inside, only a little faster than he'd withdrawn. Her fingers flexed on his waist and twitched against his scalp, sending a shiver down his spine, but with much of his weight resting firmly on top of her she was unable to buck her hips, though she tried.

"Maker…_Duncan_…" The cracked plea whispered from Calla's lips as he continued his torturously unhurried movements. Her hands moved, sliding from their respective positions to his shoulders, clutching at him spasmodically. "_Please_…" Her heels dug into the backs of his thighs, emphasising her appeal.

With a shaky groan he surrendered, moving faster, harder, driven by the sounds Calla was now making each time their hips met.

She came with a choked, gasping cry, muscles spasming around him and drawing him over the edge along with her. Duncan heard himself call out as he trembled through his release, a sound that was some incomprehensible mix of _oh Maker_ and her name.

Spent – at least for the moment – he rolled to one side, sparing Calla from supporting his entire weight. Her skin gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat, ruddy in the firelight, but still a sharp contrast to the dark tone of his arm where it lay across her body. She shifted, rolling awkwardly – belatedly he realised that he was lying across one of her arms, though her move didn't appear to be an attempt to free it – to face him. The change in position sent his arm sliding down into the dip of her waist, his hand brushing against the curve of her ass that he'd been admiring earlier.

Regret at the fleeting time he had to learn Calla's body – to come to know _her_ – slithered through his mind. Across his face as well it seemed, because she made a soft noise of distress and kissed him, a physical reminder that they at least had _now_. But that only made him more aware of the fact that, unless things went hideously, unspeakably wrong at Ostagar – or she died during the Joining, though he was confident she would not – it was inevitably she who would be left to mourn him.

"I'm sorry, I –"

She cut him off with another kiss, this one harder, harsher than the one just before it. "Don't you dare." She whispered as their lips parted. "Don't you dare be _sorry_. Not for this. Not for _me_."

There was nothing he could say to that, nothing that he thought she'd let him say anyway, so he nodded mutely and pulled her close against him. But the mood had shifted subtly. Calla pushed at his shoulder until he rolled onto his back – the bed, fortunately, was wide enough that he was in no danger of falling off the edge – rolling with him and then pushing herself up so that she was kneeling astride his hips. Her expression was determined, and he wondered if she'd misunderstood his regrets, if she intended to prove that she wanted this as badly as him, regardless of the consequences awaiting them in the future.

She reached down behind herself, stroking and caressing him back to readiness. It didn't take long, not with the picture she made, eyes half-closed and face flushed with arousal. She rose up slightly, then sank back down onto him, head tilted back and breasts swaying as she panted for breath.

Duncan let his hands smooth up and down her thighs, not so distracted by the sensation of her heat engulfing him that he hadn't noticed her slight grimace of pain. She'd probably still been recovering from the previous day, though Maker knew she'd hidden any discomfort as they travelled – well enough that it hadn't even occurred to him to wonder. And as she began moving it was clear from her expression that any pain was far outweighed by pleasure.

Making a mental note to take things easy when they first set out the next day, Duncan let his world narrow to the sight and sound and _feel_ of Calla moving atop him. Her pace was steady, even as she leaned forwards, mapping the ridges and hollows of his torso with hands and mouth.

He shivered when her tongue curled around a nipple, let out a groan as she caught it between her teeth and gently worried at it before kissing it and changing sides to give the other nipple the same treatment. Sliding his hands up her legs and round the curve of her hips – not without a brief, appreciative squeeze of her rear as he passed – Duncan ran his nails lightly up and down her spine, from tailbone to nape. She shuddered and moaned against his chest, pressing herself tightly against him and moving her hips in short, almost circular jerks.

As she tensed, burying her face in his neck so that he felt as much as heard her cry out, her inner muscles rippled and squeezed almost unbearably, and with a couple of near-involuntary upward thrusts, Duncan moaned out his own release.

They lay there, pressed together, waiting for coherency to return to the world. Calla didn't seem inclined to move and, truth be told, Duncan wasn't displeased with the idea of her remaining where she was. Unfortunately, whilst at the moment neither of them really had the energy – or inclination – to do much of anything except sleep, their situation was quickly going to become impractical. Mostly because they were lying on top of the blankets, the fire was dying down, and they were no longer engaged in activities that would keep them warm.

Oh, certainly he wouldn't be too badly off, not with Calla acting as a human blanket, but _she_ was going to get rather cold, thick Ferelden blood or no. She was also, considering how her legs were tucked up alongside his hips, likely to get cramp if she didn't straighten out.

Duncan sighed, resigned to a brief period of further exertion before letting the Fade do with him what it would.

"Don' wanna move." Calla muttered sleepily, as if she'd read his mind, although it was more likely she'd simply heard his sigh and felt the tension of his muscles as he prepared to roll them both over.

"You can't get revenge against Howe if you freeze to death here." He felt her grimace against his chest, the disgruntled and eminently _rude_ noise accompanying the gesture making it clear what she thought of both Howe and his underhanded tactic.

After a moment, as he began to wonder whether he'd have to manhandle her after all, she sighed and rolled over, then sat up with a groan and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Duncan chuckled as, with another sigh, she grabbed the edge of the blankets and stood up just long enough to move them out of the way, immediately rearranging herself so that she was snuggled underneath the thick covers, only the top of her head visible.

Not quite as quickly, Duncan followed her example, reaching out and pulling her back against his chest once he was settled. It felt _right_ to have her wrapped securely in his arms, her back pressed defensively against him. Yes, his back was to the door of the room, and yes, his weapons – and hers – were entirely out of reach, but right now he didn't care. All he cared was that she was _his_.

And he was hers.

#

**AN**: Adding rooms to Dane's Refuge, yes, technically that would make it an inn, but I figure inns might have higher taxes (or something), so the rooms are only let to those who can afford the cost of bribing any officials to look the other way (if necessary), or can intimidate Finbar into it.

Mugs of _small beer_ – no, it's not a typo/grammar glitch. Small beer is a very weak beer/ale containing very little alcohol and was usually drunk instead of water, which (for the time period in which DA:O is set) was often disease-ridden due to low levels of sanitation.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; Dwarven Commoner Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: References, but not necessarily spoilers for: Return to Ostagar DLC; The Calling (Novel); Warden's Keep DLC information.

**AN:** Sorry about the skipped week, but work insisted I spend a couple of days away from home and wouldn't listen to my excuse that I needed to beta for Thessali and post the latest chapter of ADV…silly work… Many thanks to Thessali for beta'ing – awesome work as ever :D

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: Not much – a mention or two of adult themes; nothing graphic

**Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; Dwarven Commoner Origin; DA:O plot before Lothering; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

#

They left Lothering early in the morning despite having slept relatively little. Fortunately Calla seemed to be one of those people who needed next to no sleep; someone who, like Duncan could wake up and be _awake_ at a moment's notice.

They'd departed before dawn, before the tavernkeeper had been awake, so the breakfast of bread and cheese that they ate on the move – as well as the small beer in their waterskins and the supplies for a meal at midday – had been quietly appropriated by Duncan and a set of lockpicks. Calla had raised an eyebrow and shaken her head when he'd produced them from his pouch, but she'd seemed more amused than disapproving.

They kept a wary eye out for bandits, with Duncan additionally alert for the sensation that warned of nearby darkspawn. As they travelled he expanded firstly on the political workings of the Grey Wardens, and then on the situation at Ostagar and all the historical and political tensions that Cailan's boyish enthusiasm and royal decrees could only do so much to tamp down.

When they stopped to eat at noon, the ruins of the fort were visible against the heavily forested backdrop of the Korcari Wilds. It was an impressive sight, despite the skeletal appearance of what stonework remained, made all the more dramatic with the blight-storm ominously thick on the horizon.

"We're meant to go toe-to-toe with that," Calla muttered, gesturing at the dark clouds and flashing lightning, "and defeat it? Don't you think a _mage_ might have been more useful?"

Duncan chuckled and joined her on the boulder she was using as a seat, his arm slipping around her waist as she leaned against him. "Fortunately no, we don't go 'toe-to-toe' with the storm – although I'm sure it was a significant hazard in the days when the Grey Wardens still rode Griffons." He kept his tone light and reassuring, aware that her slightly sarcastic questions were probably to hide a sudden onset of nerves. "And we won't be fighting alone. Though it's true we'll be outnumbered, tactics and a good defensive position give us the edge."

But only if everything went to plan, and Duncan was far too experienced with things _not_ going to plan to believe that this battle would be the exception.

The worst case would be if the archdemon finally made its appearance, though his friend and fellow warden, Cian, had been confident enough that it didn't intend to take the field anytime soon. It was that confidence that had sealed Duncan's decision to make one last search for recruits, a search that had resulted in at least two candidates, and possibly more depending on Brennan's luck.

"Cailan's army has won several battles with the darkspawn already, his men are well aware of the enemy they face – and most importantly, aware that the darkspawn _can_ be defeated."

"But…?" Calla asked around a mouthful of bread.

Duncan sighed. "But Cailan is…overeager." He admitted. "I fear he believes the legends too much and thinks the Grey Wardens are immortal, invincible. And Loghain is…not helpful in convincing him to wait for the reinforcements I have requested from the Orlesian Grey Wardens."

"Loghain Mac Tir? The Hero of the River Dane? Hah! No, I bet he isn't." Calla's voice was wry. "What about the Guerrins? They have strong ties to the throne, and Redcliffe isn't far from Lothering."

Duncan frowned as he chewed on his own meal, contemplating possible answers to a question he'd not only asked himself, but asked of Cailan. "Cailan refuses to ask his uncle for aid." He stated finally. "Eamon has offered, and that offer has been declined. Cailan claims that we don't need the extra men, that Eamon simply desires the _glory_."

But Cailan was worse than his father at hiding his emotions, and Maric had never been an expert at it – if you knew him well enough. There was a bitterness to the excuse that suggested Cailan and Eamon had fallen out over something or other. Something that the two of them had managed to keep unusually quiet if it hadn't reached the ears of a Cousland. Knowing who was friends and enemies with whom was the heart of politics after all.

"Well," Calla declared, _too_ cheerfully, "that explains why you're out scrounging for recruits with _that_ on the horizon – more grist for the mill!"

Duncan suppressed his snort at her gallows' humour – a trait she'd undoubtedly picked up from the soldiers at Highever – and held his tongue from spilling the comments that sprang to mind. She didn't need to know his reasons for wanting her as a recruit, not yet. Let her meet the other Wardens, Daveth and any other recruits, still ignorant of his plans. Perhaps that way the others would realise her inevitable surprise was genuine, and not make too much of the fact that she was sleeping with him. And of course, there would be no expectations for him to choose another new Grey Warden if she didn't survive the Joining.

The existing Grey Wardens, men he'd personally seen through their own Joining rituals, trusted him enough that he doubted they would mutter overmuch about his decision when they learned of it. Some mutters, inevitably, but none with real heat. Even Brennan, his Second, was more likely to be relieved that the political balancing act of the Wardens would be in someone else's hands, for Duncan had never made a secret of how demanding remaining politically 'neutral' could be.

"If you're planning on eating that cheese yourself," Duncan commented, changing the subject, "then I suggest you do so before we reach Ostagar."

"Oh?" Calla paused in the act of putting the wrapped cheese back in a hip pouch she'd found abandoned under the bed in the tavern.

"Mm – I'm not sure whether Cailan or Alistair will sniff it out first, but whichever it is, you can count on handing it over to them eventually, either by royal command or to the most pleading expression you've ever seen." Calla, gave him a long look before bursting into laughter.

Duncan smiled, finished off his own cheese and drank from his waterskin before reluctantly removing his arm from around Calla and standing up. Though they were ahead of themselves in terms of when he'd expected to return – so much so that he hadn't sent any messages back since the one that Daveth had taken – there was more than enough to keep him busy until they were ready to hold the Joining ritual tomorrow afternoon. Or tomorrow evening, if they'd somehow managed to beat Brennan back, which he doubted.

Besides, by arriving earlier than expected they could probably avoid being ambushed by Cailan in all his embarrassing, hero-worshiping splendour. Maric, if their shades ever met up again in the Fade, had a _lot_ to answer for.

#

Thankfully, though Duncan had no doubts that they'd been spotted by the sentries on the north side of camp, no one seemed to have passed news of his arrival on to Cailan. Either that, or Loghain was yet again trying to teach the king the difference between legends and reality – namely that though the bards said the heros were always in the front ranks of any attack, said heros were, by and large, _dead_. Usually in the carnage of the same attacks they'd been leading.

Unfortunately, regardless of who thought that in the front ranks with the Grey Wardens was _not_ the best place for him, Cailan ultimately had the final word. Otherwise Duncan might well have tried to strike a bargain with Loghain about waiting for Orlesian reinforcements. Not that the Teyrn's opinions about Grey Wardens being as bad as Orlesians had changed one bit in the twenty years since Maric had invited them back to Ferelden. And in his case at least, Duncan thought the hatred was especially personal.

But the threat to Ferelden was undeniable, and with Cailan's insistence on Grey Wardens being present Loghain had grudgingly relented. It wasn't _quite_ a truce, indeed, Loghain pointedly refused to acknowledge Duncan's presence or that of any other Grey Warden, with the exception of Alistair, whom the Teyrn watched like a hawk whenever he was in view. Duncan was depressingly certain that Loghain knew _exactly_ who the ex-templar was, and suspected the 'Orlesian-loving' Grey Wardens intended to make another Sophia Dryden – only more successful – out of him.

Duncan _really_ hoped that the Maker would grant them a miracle, and the battle would go to plan – or at the very least that Cailan survived – because otherwise there was going to be the most hideous _mess_ of politics and war that he could imagine. And knowing what he did of Orlesian and Dwarven politics – both as tangled and deadly as a pit of vipers – he could imagine some pretty hideous messes.

Still, despite what Loghain potentially stood to gain if Cailan managed to achieve his apparent goal of an heroic death, Duncan couldn't believe the taciturn man would do anything to actively endanger Ferelden. And surely, even blinded by his hatred for Orlesians and Grey Wardens both, he could see that any deliberate sabotage of the coming battle could only lead to disaster for the country?

#

"Duncan!" He recognised the deep, surprised voice immediately and turned to greet his Second as he hurried over. "You sly old dog!" Brennan exclaimed as they clasped forearms, "we weren't expecting you for another day yet!"

"Should I take that to mean the camp is a mess and everyone hung-over?" Duncan enquired mildly, hoping his beard was hiding the faint grin that was trying to spread across his face.

Brennan peered at him for a moment, then guffawed and jovially clapped him on the arm. "I _knew_ the rumours about you having a sense of humour were true! And who's this, another recruit?" He looked Calla up and down in a quick, but thorough, assessment, an appreciative grin on his face.

Duncan, to his surprise, found himself utterly without any sensation of jealousy or suspicion, despite the fact that Brennan had something of a reputation when it came to women. "This is Calla, and yes, she's the last recruit since you're obviously back. How many does that give us?"

"Four." Brennan replied promptly, turning his attention back to Duncan after giving a nod of greeting to Calla. "There's Ser Jory, a knight from Redcliffe, Daveth, the thief you sent on from Denerim, Nora, the dwarven lass I extracted from Orzammar using the Right, and now your lass Calla."

Clearly there was a story behind the dwarven woman's recruitment, but Duncan decided to let it wait until later. Grey Wardens left their pasts behind them, as much as they could, and Commanders didn't go passing that information around, even to their potential successors. Not unless there was a pressing need for someone else to know about potential stress points.

He nodded to Brennan and turned to Calla. "You're free to explore the camp and pick up any additional equipment you need from the quartermaster's stock. There's a tab, but don't go over a sovereign."

"You'll need a tent." Brennan added helpfully.

"A bedroll at least." Duncan sighed as Calla stared at him with a raised eyebrow. He avoided looking in Brennan's direction, and the other man thankfully didn't voice whatever he thought of the exchange.

She nodded. "Shall I make myself scarce until later? No doubt you have things to catch up with and prepare for."

"Alistair and the other recruits should be somewhere around the main camp." Brennan answered, though the question had been directed at Duncan. "The recruits aren't too hard to spot – Jory and Daveth are the ones who don't quite look the part of soldiers, and Nora's the only dwarf. As for Alistair," he chuckled, "he's about Duncan's height, short blond hair, wearing splintmail, and if he hasn't got one or both feet in his mouth when you see him, he will within moments of you saying 'hi'."

Duncan snorted, as much at Calla's somewhat bemused expression as at Brennan's description of Alistair.

"Oh yes," Brennan added belatedly, "and he's also sporting a rather impressive shiner."

#

"So." Both Duncan and Brennan spoke simultaneously the moment Calla was out of earshot.

"Go on." Duncan prompted, aware his Second would refuse to be distracted until he'd asked his questions and made his opinion known on the answers.

"You and her – is that a good idea?"

Duncan shrugged. "We both know what we're getting into." Instantly Brennan's brows drew down into a worried frown, but Duncan continued before he could ask the next, obvious, question. "She already knew, enough anyway. I only corrected a few of her misunderstandings – and yes, she knows not to tell the other recruits anything."

Brennan nodded, glancing across the camp to where Calla was talking with the quartermaster, then looking back at Duncan thoughtfully. Finally he nodded. "In that case, I'm glad for you." He said, voice gruff.

"Thank you my friend." Duncan acknowledged.

Brennan, along with Alistair, were the only two he had outright told about the return of his nightmares, the onset of his Calling, though it was likely the other Grey Wardens had guessed the truth.

Brennan harrumphed, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional direction the conversation had drifted in – unsurprising considering he was a berserker in combat, all rage and elemental fury. "So, I suppose you want my report?"

"Yes." Duncan agreed. "But let's go somewhere quieter."

"You mean somewhere where you're harder to spot!" Brennan corrected with a bark of laughter. "Our camp's out then – his shininess is hiding there from Loghain. _Again_."

Duncan shook his head at the nickname – one of several in the same vein – the Grey Wardens had taken to using for the King. It wasn't meant disrespectfully, or at least, not entirely so, but Cailan's boyish enthusiasm somehow lacked his father's charisma, and he'd failed to win them over the way Maric had once won Duncan and his fellow wardens over. The Grey Wardens tolerated him, but resented his intrusion into their brotherhood at the same time, and unlike Maric, who'd faced a similarly cool reception, Cailan wasn't interested in listening to anything that countered the heroics of the Grey Warden legends, and didn't have any _real_ experience of the hardships of combat.

Still, the latter was hardly Cailan's fault. Truth be told, the actual combat experience of the Grey Wardens was hardly what Duncan would have preferred, and it was going to make a very real difference in the battle, archdemon or no. Cailan might scoff whenever more Grey Wardens were suggested, citing the unofficial nightmare the Ferelden forces had faced trying to evict a mere hundred of them from the country, but much as Duncan would back any one of his men against four or five of Cailan or Loghain's men, the simple truth was that the darkspawn were as strong or stronger than a Grey Warden. The Grey Wardens had multiple advantages – strength, speed, stamina – over normal enemies, but against the darkspawn their only real advantage was the ability to think. And that was only going to get them so far when they were this badly outnumbered.

The unfortunate reality was that this battle was going to take a tremendous toll on both sides – and the darkspawn could rebuild their numbers _much_ faster. Ferelden was going to lose a war of attrition, and the archdemon seemed to know it.

"How about the tower to the Southeast of the Royal enclave?"

"Hm – good plan!" Brennan agreed. "I'm sure Loghain has his guard under standing orders to nab his shininess if he comes by, and you can't get up there without going right by Loghain's tent."

"I was actually thinking I might remind myself of the valley we're going to be fighting in sometime in the near future." Duncan commented dryly.

"Of course, my mistake." Brennan snorted, blatantly unconvinced – and cheerfully unapologetic.

Duncan sighed and headed for the tower – more a lookout post these days, now that its upper floors had crumbled and fallen into the valley. He'd never really met Cailan whilst Maric was alive, mainly because it had been agreed that he would keep his visits discreet – as much to avoid unpleasant confrontations with Loghain as to avoid having to invent excuses for his presence. It wasn't as if he could announce himself as being there to inform the King of the health of his bastard son.

Unfortunately that meant that Cailan had _heard_ a lot about Duncan but had never really come to _know_ him and Maric had been all too good at omitting the little details that made his friends look less godlike and more human. It was well meant, but Cailan's expression on meeting him for the first time… Duncan imagined a devout Chantry believer would wear a similar expression if they ever came face to face with Andraste.

Knowing exactly where he'd come from, and the less scrupulous things he'd done in his life, Duncan was eminently uncomfortable with being treated like a hero, and he'd taken to…minimising his contact with the King, where possible. It hadn't taken long for the rest of the Grey Wardens to catch on, and since then it had become something of a running joke. Fortunately a running joke that was kept as close to their chests as their knowledge of the Joining – Duncan couldn't imagine Cailan reacting as his father would have, shaking it off with a laugh and a joke at his own expense, followed by a sincere apology and a genuine resolve to amend his behaviour.

"Alright," a flat stare at the nearby elf was enough to send him scurrying away, leaving them alone, and Duncan turned to look at Brennan, his arms folded, "report."

"Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe sends his regards and requests that you inform the King that he can have his soldiers here in two or three days." Brennan began promptly. "He looked…old." He added thoughtfully, "as if maybe he's sickening for something."

"Or as if he's an old man, worried about his nephew?"

"Mm, there is that." Brennan conceded. "Anyway, Ser Jory was the best of a bad bunch. I sent him along, but I have my doubts about whether he'll make the Joining – one of his shininess' stripe I think, but without enough spine to back it up." He shrugged. "I could be wrong – I never thought Murphy had much potential, but he's turning out solid enough."

Murphy, a mage from the circle tower, was one of the newer Grey Wardens. One of the same group of recruits as Alistair, he'd only gone through his Joining ritual a scarce six months before – the reason Duncan had decided against looking for another mage recruit this time. With Murphy stolen from the circle, and Alistair conscripted out from the Chantry, he'd thought it best to not tweak the Grand Cleric's nose any further out of joint, at least this year.

To be fair, though both Murphy and Alistair had their faults – Murphy was an utter pessimist, never happier than when predicting doom for everyone, and outside of combat he was the clumsiest, unluckiest man Duncan had ever met, whilst Alistair was an exemplary follower, but shied away from taking the initiative without having a clearly defined goal – they were easily shaping up to be the best of the three who had survived.

"Carried on up to Orzammar after that – King Endrin sends his regards."

Duncan nodded and gestured for Brennan to continue, sensing that his Second was somewhat reluctant to explain exactly what he'd meant by 'extracting a dwarven recruit using the Right'.

"You know what the dwarves are like with their provings." It wasn't a question. Duncan, after all, had been the one to introduce Brennan to King Endrin Aeducan, and explain some of the dwarven customs and beliefs. Not to mention the minor fact that most of the Grey Wardens had made at least one trip into the Deep Roads to get darkspawn blood for their Joining rituals. "Well, there was a bit of an incident – Nora's a casteless you see, but she took someone else's place and had the temerity to _win_. In fine style as well."

"So you conscripted her?" No, Duncan decided, as Brennan grimaced. That would've been _far_ too simple.

"Not…exactly." Brennan confessed. "I was _going_ to, only it turned out she'd been sent to throw the provings on someone else's orders – one of their cartas. They bribed her out from the King's gaol." He shrugged. "I honestly thought that was the last we'd seen of her, but no, she only managed to get out of wherever they'd stashed her and cut her way out into the Diamond Quarter – _through_ the carta leader and most of his thugs." His grin was positively bloodthirsty. "She'll make a _grand_ berserker, given half a chance."

"I take it you're confident _she'll_ pass the Joining."

"No problem!" Brennan cheerfully agreed, though it hadn't really been a question. "The fun part is going to be integrating her into the group."

Duncan sighed. "Why do I suspect this has _something_ to do with Alistair having a black eye?"

"Well…"

#

At the end of the explanation Duncan wasn't sure whether to laugh or sigh. Brennan was enthusiastic enough, but lacked experience at picking recruits – something that Duncan knew was his own fault for not really giving him the opportunities to try. He also had a tendency to look for recruits that matched _his_ ideal of what a Grey Warden should be – berserkers – and lacked the tact to politely decline a recruit that he didn't feel was up to the realities of the Joining. Fortunately he _knew_ he lacked that tact and relied instead on Duncan's.

Under normal circumstances he might have assessed the candidates himself and, if necessary, overturned Brennan's decisions. These were not, however, normal circumstances. They needed every Grey Warden they could get, and if that meant risking one of the recruits trying to back out at the last moment, or ending up with a somewhat psychotic dwarven warrior in their ranks, then so be it.

"What do you make of Daveth?"

"Lousy thief." Came Brennan's immediate response. "Can't pick a pocket to save his life and doesn't know one end of a lockpick from the other. The gift of the gab has also failed to get him into any bedrolls so far, and even _I_ can manage that."

It was true, Daveth _was_ a lousy thief, although even a decent thief would struggle to pick _Duncan's_ pocket. Then again, to have survived so long and still be so inept suggested that he'd been something else for most of his life, especially considering how good you had to be to steal something from a Ferelden noble – as Duncan knew from personal experience.

"Other skills?"

"Archer. Some dual-knife work, but mainly archer. The calluses give him away if you catch him without the gloves, and his right bracer's worn smooth on the inside."

It wasn't unheard of for a Grey Warden to primarily be an archer, but they would have to make sure his melee skills were up to standard as well. Fighting darkspawn _always_ came down to melee, sooner or later, either because you couldn't drop all of the ones charging you before they closed the distance, or because you ran out of arrows before they were all dead.

"Chances of surviving the Joining?" Like all his questions about Daveth, this was largely a test of Brennan's ability to evaluate recruits. True, he'd had several days to analyse Daveth, but once the Blight was dealt with there would be time aplenty, and if the Blight _wasn't _dealt with there would be no time at all, or recruits.

"Could go either way. He seems genuine enough about wanting to do something to stop the Blight, to protect the commoners and nobles who can't protect themselves. I can't help wondering if he wants it _too_ much though, if he's actually trying to convince himself that we're a good way to die without obviously committing suicide."

"It's possible." Duncan agreed thoughtfully. Brennan's insight wasn't one that had occurred to him, but when he'd recruited Daveth the thief had been too grateful for his 'mercy' to really assess his character. "Alright, what about Calla?"

"Eh?" Brennan's surprise was clear. "Come on – I met her for what, five minutes?"

"How long do you think I had to make my mind up about Daveth? And you gave him a reasonable chance for survival."

"I know." Brennan muttered. "I'm starting to think it was a trick question."

Duncan firmly squashed the temptation to laugh at his Second's expression. "Alright," he relented after a moment, "you can ask five _specific_ questions – and no, you can't ask me what _I_ think her chances are."

Brennan let out a huff of breath and frowned, staring at nothing in particular as he thought. "Well she's from Highever going by the crest on the shield, probably a knight – she'd be carrying a bow if she was one of their rangers. Short hair, so unlikely to be particularly blue-blooded – no mabari either."

Duncan kept his expression blank.

"What route did you travel from Highever to Ostagar?" Brennan asked.

"More or less directly south, across the Bannorn, then down the Imperial Highway from Lothering."

"That explains why you're back early." Brennan chuckled. "Still, damn quick, which means _you_ set the pace, so she must have some stamina." He winked, the sly expression that accompanied it leaving Duncan in no doubt as to what _else_ he was implying she had stamina in.

"Was that a question?" Duncan asked mildly, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

"Um…no." Brennan decided after a moment. "Not yet." He winked again, his expression returning to a frown as he went back to thinking. "What weapons does she use?"

"To my knowledge," Duncan replied slowly, aware that he hadn't asked her about her capabilities with ranged weapons, "she's cross-trained in dual wielding, two-handed weapons and with a shield and one-handed weapon."

Brennan gave a low whistle and then grimaced. "Cross-trained, useful if she's amenable to picking something we're short on, but you know what they say about jacks-of-all-trades." He laughed, "and it confirms my suspicion that she's too disciplined to be another berserker!" There was a long pause, and several times Brennan nodded to himself. "She's female – I'm sure _you've_ noticed that – so where's her family, her relatives?" Everything that normally kept female recruits away, though Brennan didn't say that aloud.

Duncan shook his head. "Too general."

"Oh, I mean, what's their status? Alive, dead, estranged, unknown?"

"Dead."

Brennan glanced at him sharply, and Duncan realised his tone had been too sombre. His regret – and yes, he did regret the loss of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, even if he hadn't known them long or well – might have just caught him out. "And unknown." He added belatedly, recalling Calla's brother, Fergus.

But his slip of memory seemed to have perplexed his Second, and Brennan scratched his head, a puzzled expression on his face. "Was she a volunteer, a recruit, or a conscription?"

Duncan had to think about that, though he knew it would tell Brennan that the situation hadn't been straightforward. "Recruit." He decided finally, after weighing up her initial suggestion that she wouldn't mind being a Grey Warden with her father's eventual reluctant agreement.

"Alright, last question – once you answer it I'll tell you what I think her chances of surviving the Joining are." Brennan's expression was entirely too pleased with himself – Duncan felt his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Is she any good in bed?"

"Yes." It was the only answer he could give without lying or otherwise encouraging his Second's curiosity. It was also satisfyingly lacking in the details he knew Brennan was fishing for.

"Aw, come on – _details_!"

Duncan shook his head. "You asked your question, I answered it. So, chances of survival?"

"If I'd asked what she's _like_ in bed you'd have said it was too general _and_ known what I was going to ask next." Brennan muttered. "I only want to know because I can see well enough I'm never going to find out first hand."

Duncan's expression remained firm, though he felt a very warm, smug sensation spreading through him.

"Fine." Brennan sighed. "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be screwing her if you weren't reasonably certain she'll survive. Besides, if she knows as much as you hinted and still came along willingly, she can't be too far off the right mentality – I doubt you're _that_ good in bed, old man."

"Something else you'll never know first hand." Duncan quipped.

Brennan laughed. "Not unless one of us gets on the wrong side of mage, anyway!" He agreed. "Alright, so spill, what details were you hiding behind those 'specific questions'?"

Duncan grinned slyly. "Well you know the salient points, but what you didn't figure out is that she's Calla _Cousland_."

Brennan's expression was satisfyingly stunned, the implications obvious. "Maker's _balls_!" He exclaimed in a somewhat choked voice. "I know the Cousland men came through nearly a day ahead of you led by the Teyrn's eldest, so he must be the one you don't know about. What happened? And why haven't you gone straight to the King with this?" It was a measure of how off-balance the news had knocked him that Brennan actually referred to Cailan by his title and not a nickname.

"Loghain, if not Cailan, would have sent Fergus and his men straight out on patrol –"

Brennan nodded in silent confirmation.

"– I doubt we'll see them any time soon. As for telling the King, there's nothing he can do until after the battle – _if_ anyone's in any state to do anything about it at that point." Duncan shrugged. "What happened was a coup, staged after Fergus left with most of Highever's defenders, by the Arl of Amaranthine."

"Rendon Howe." Brennan snarled, hands curling into fists as some of his berserker attitude started to show through. "Somehow I'm not surprised to hear that oily bastard's behind it."

With a long, shuddering exhalation, Brennan visibly brought himself under control and forced his tensed muscles to relax. "Well, at least you were there to get her out." His expression was grim, haunted.

"If she survives the Joining," Duncan said slowly, aware that this wasn't quite how he'd planned his revelation, but not sure how else to startle Brennan out of his memories, "I plan to name her my successor before I leave for the Deep Roads."

There was a moment in which his statement seemed to hang in the air, tangible. "You're joking!" Brennan exclaimed, expression shocked. After a long hard stare at Duncan, however he shook his head slowly. "You're _not_ joking." He breathed. "Maker…"

"She's as qualified for the job as I ever was." Duncan pointed out calmly, taking the fact that Brennan hadn't instantly burst out with denials as a good sign. "More so in some ways."

"That's as may be, but has she even _seen_ a live darkspawn?" Brennan, as was his style, cut straight to the heart of the matter.

"I doubt darkspawn, alive or dead, are going to be a problem." Duncan replied, somewhat evasively. "If, for whatever reason, they – or anything else – _are_ a problem," he shrugged, "then we simply never mention my plans to anyone else and you'll _have_ to take over."

Brennan gave him another hard look, then grunted. "You haven't told _her_ then." He seemed somewhat mollified by the realisation. "I thought you might have succumbed to her feminine wiles."

The blunt comment, however much of a tacit apology it was meant to be, stung. Especially coming from Brennan, because if those had been _his_ initial thoughts on the matter, they would inevitably be the initial thoughts of the majority – if not all – of the other Grey Wardens.

"I have not." Duncan stated, rather stiffly.

Brennan grimaced. "You know I didn't mean it like _that_."

Duncan shook himself mentally and forced himself to nod. "I know." His tone was as apologetic as he could make it. Until the Joining ritual was complete the recruits were still, when all was said and done, outsiders. Caught between the Order and the rest of the world, they were neither fish nor fowl until fate decreed whether they would stand in the shadows or fall into an early grave. To talk of a Grey Warden, however junior, becoming the Warden Commander was one thing. To talk of a _recruit_ doing so was another thing entirely.

His recollection that the recruits were outsiders until after the Joining had also reminded him that the vast majority of the people in the camp were _not_ Grey Wardens. And though he trusted Calla, there was an uneasy stirring at the back of his mind asking whether he could trust anyone else who was neither Grey Warden nor recruit.

A glance out over the valley showed that surveying the terrain was a cause lost to the evening's rapidly gathering gloom. Not that, as Brennan had correctly guessed, he'd ever had any real intention of doing so. If he'd had any _real_ input into the disposition of the army's forces then maybe… But there was no point dwelling on maybes. Grey Wardens would fight in the front ranks as they had always done, because between the rock of Loghain's distrust and the hard place of Cailan's hero worship they had no other choice – no matter that they were all but being ordered to throw their lives away.

At least he could be reasonably certain that Cailan would see the merit in his plan to hold Alistair and the newest Grey Wardens – if they had any – back from the main battle. He wouldn't know the real reason – Duncan wasn't entirely sure whether Cailan was aware that Alistair was his half-brother or not – but he would understand the reasons Duncan intended to give.

The need to find Calla, to ensure that she was safe, was growing steadily. It felt disturbingly akin to the phantom pull that indicated nearby darkspawn, though lacking any pull in a particular direction, and Duncan frowned into the darkness, wondering if the taint was somehow related to the urge. Perhaps it was also the reason he felt unconcerned at the idea of Calla being around Grey Wardens, yet angry and suspicious of anyone else near her. There was so much the Grey Wardens still didn't know, didn't understand, about how the taint affected them. And perhaps they never would.

"We should get back to camp – make sure the recruits are fed and tucked up for the night."

Duncan nodded absently at Brennan's words and turned away from the shadow shrouded valley. "You're right. We should."

Brennan chuckled. "Didn't think you'd be so eager to run into his shininess. But I guess you're more eager to get back to your woman."

The sudden realisation that Calla – _his_ – might have made her way to the Grey Warden camp and be in close proximity to Cailan, who was widely reputed to have inherited his father's roving eye, made Duncan hiss aloud. And it wasn't something he could rationalise away, something he could convince himself was inconsequential – might not even be true, since there was no certainty that Calla wasn't still wandering around this part of the encampment.

"Okay, _that's_ new." Brennan's tone was sober – and rather worried. "Something I should know about?"

It probably was, but Duncan didn't feel particularly inclined to go into details there and then – mainly because he was still trying to work the details out for himself. "I need you to go to the camp and, if Cailan and Calla are both there, let Cailan know I'm back and looking for him."

Brennan frowned, clearly confused. "Well…that's a first. Do I get to know why, or are you going to leave me in suspense?"

"The taint." Duncan replied vaguely. "There are…complications."

Brennan's frown deepened. "I've slept with more than my share of women since becoming a Grey Warden, and I've never…" He trailed off, frown vanishing to be replaced by a look of surprised wonder. "Maker's breath…you –"

"Yes." Duncan cut across him. "Yes, I do. Maker help the both of us." He muttered the last under his breath.

"Alright." Brennan nodded, expression and tone resolute. "I'll rescue the lads from the shining splendour and point him in your direction – I daresay they'll be most grateful for your sacrifice. Should I suggest that you're anywhere in particular?"

"I'll be at the bonfire between the Ash Warrior camp and the Royal enclave." He decided, aware of the way the air was cooling now that the sun was dipping below the horizon. "For a while anyway."

"Eh, I'll send someone to fetch you if the coast's clear." With that, and another wondering look, Brennan hurried away.

Duncan took a deep breath and released it slowly, forcing himself to be calm – rational. He was _not_ going to greet Cailan with wild accusations or unfounded insinuations. Calla was _his_ – he had no doubts that she was going to stray. _None_. Or at least, none that he was going to acknowledge as having any basis in reality. And Cailan, whatever his views on being faithful – or not – to his queen, was not the kind of man to force a woman to his bed.

Still, better to face the King with her elsewhere. _And_ away from the rest of the Grey Wardens. The way they had so quickly mirrored his own attitude towards Cailan had been amusing in a way, only now Duncan couldn't help but wonder if there was something more to it than that. Darkspawn had a hierarchy, of sorts – and so did the Grey Wardens. Who was to say that the reason he didn't feel threatened by the idea of Calla amongst the other Grey Wardens wasn't because he was the Warden Commander – the Alpha of the order in Ferelden?

Slowly he made his way to the bonfire where he'd told Brennan he would wait, pondering the difference between darkspawn and the untainted races, and what parts of each might unconsciously drive the Grey Wardens.

Like most Wardens – or so he suspected – Duncan had never really let himself wonder about the taint and its darker effects upon his body and mind, suspecting that such questions could only lead to insanity. It was commonly acknowledged, amongst the Grey Wardens, that there were physical changes; strength, speed, stamina and an increased rate of healing. But of the mental changes the only ones that were widely known were the dreams, the link that let them sense the presence of darkspawn, and in the end, the Calling. There were also oddities that cropped up now and then, such as Kell's ability to 'smell' the taint and distinguish individuals with it, or Cian's ability to vaguely understand the dreams they all had of the archdemon, but they were rare and usually an enhancement of some pre-Joining ability.

Now he had to wonder if there weren't _other_ mental effects. Effects that normally acted well beneath conscious notice – until something happened to make their influence felt.

"Ho Duncan!" Cailan's greeting was loud and cheerful, alerting Duncan to his approach well before he arrived, but there was something off about his tone, his stride. Something…angry?

"Your majesty." Duncan turned towards the approaching king, a slight frown on his face as he tried to determine what was wrong. Ah well, this was Cailan, no doubt he'd find out what had irked him soon enough.

"We weren't expecting you until tomorrow, otherwise I would have contrived to greet you sooner." Cailan was grinning, an expression at odds with his slightly chiding tone, and Duncan strove to keep his face as neutral as possible whilst clasping arms in greeting.

"My apologies, your majesty. I made better time than I had expected."

As ever Duncan found his language becoming formal, stilted. Maric had been a _friend_, as much a brother as any Grey Warden, but Cailan… He knew little of his friend's firstborn son, only that he seemed to expect people to meet his expectations of them and was lost, confused, when they couldn't measure up to his idealistic standards.

He'd learned of the 'common folk' through tales of the rebellion – and it showed. Though the people loved him well enough it was as an icon, a reminder of the king who'd freed them and whom they'd then lost. Better if Cailan had been able to accept that and resign himself to ruling in the shadow of his dead parents…but he'd been isolated from reality too much for that. He'd heard of hardship and terror and fear and starvation – but he'd never lived it, and he was unthinkingly dismissive of the achievement of those who had and did. He wanted to prove himself as good a king as his father, but somehow it seemed to have completely escaped him that being a 'good king' didn't necessarily mean doing glorious and heroic deeds. It meant doing what was best for your country, even if it cost your heart and eventually, your soul.

"And saved Bryce's daughter as well." Cailan's tone was hard, his brows furrowed as he scowled angrily. "I can't believe…" He shook his head, seemingly forcing himself to dismiss the matter.

Duncan fought to keep his expression from twisting into an angry scowl of his own. It was clear that Cailan _had_ been talking to Calla. Hoping his gesture would go unnoticed, he folded his arms loosely behind his back, letting his fingers curl into tight fists. He could feel the metal of the joints, despite the padding, but he would _not_ attack the king. Not for merely _talking_ to Calla.

"I promised her that Howe will be punished, though it must wait until the darkspawn have been dealt with." Cailan said after a moment, his expression composed once more. He seemed utterly oblivious to the dangerous line he was walking, the amount of sheer willpower that it was taking for Duncan to hold himself still and silent. "But I doubt that was what you wanted to see me about."

"I intended to mention it after the battle tomorrow, your majesty." Duncan agreed. "We have –"

"Ah, Cailan." Teyrn Loghain's voice, as hard and disapproving as his habitual stony expression, cut across Duncan's words. "I was looking for you."

Cailan rolled his eyes. "And now you've found me."

Duncan suppressed his snort of amusement and carefully _didn't_ let his lips twist into any sort of smile. Cailan could hardly have stated his dismay more clearly if he'd actually said the words 'oh dear'.

Loghain, as ever, looked utterly impassive in the face of his king's clear reluctance. "We need to discuss the plans for tomorrow's battle."

"We've discussed the same plans for the past three _days_." Cailan snapped, expression mulish. Unfortunately, as Duncan – and undoubtedly Cailan and Loghain – knew, the king's stubborn streak had _nothing_ on Loghain's. "Besides, Duncan has something he wishes to discuss with me."

"Is that so?" Loghain's eyebrow rose as he looked at Duncan – a challenge that he wasn't about to accept. Not when he needed Cailan to adopt his suggestion as his own idea, to force the issue with royal command if need be.

"It can wait until tomorrow, your majesty." Duncan quietly demurred.

"Oh, _fine_." Cailan muttered irritably, shooting a slightly betrayed glance at him. "Your tent, I suppose?" He asked Loghain rhetorically, not waiting for an answer before he went striding off towards the Royal enclave, cloak rippling behind him like the swishing tail of an angry cat.

"Have a care, Grey Warden," Loghain commented darkly, shooting him an even darker look, "your _true_ colours are showing."

Duncan let his eyes narrow as Loghain strode away, wondering what he'd meant by that comment. Then, as he finally let his fingers relax and his arms unfold, he realised.

Loghain had approached from the opposite side of the fire to Cailan, giving him a clear view of the clenched fists behind Duncan's back. Clenched so hard that the metal joints had bitten _through_ the padding and drawn blood. Blood that had trickled out and decorated his gauntlets in rich crimson.

His 'true colours' indeed.

#

**AN:** Yes, there _was_ supposed to be smut in this chapter, but people got to talking and, well, I just couldn't bring myself to diminish the power of that last little interaction with Loghain… Smut in the next chapter, promise :)

Because it just occurred to me that people _might_ be confused, a 'shiner' is a black eye (it's early, it may be that no one is confused at all...oh well).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; Dwarven Commoner Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: Mind the sap, it's a bit…sweet before the smut. Also, Cian is pronounced 'kee-AHN' (if anyone cares). Thanks to Thessali for beta'ing, a wonderful job as ever; remaining faults are all mine.

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: Smut (darkish with BDSM overtones).

**Spoilers for**: DA:O plot before Lothering; Grey Warden information

#

Duncan made sure to wash the blood from his gauntlets before heading to the Grey Warden camp on the west side of the defences. Though it might not have bothered the wardens, he wanted to try and keep up at least an _appearance_ of normality for the sake of the recruits. Most of the recruits anyway.

That Loghain had seen and misinterpreted his clenched fists wasn't a particular problem. All it had really done was allow the dour man to further convince himself that his distrust of the Grey Wardens was not misplaced. Cailan, fortunately, was personally too enamoured of the order to believe any allegations without solid proof which, by tomorrow, would be gone.

The Teyrn only ever seemed to rescue him from Cailan's presence when Duncan actually _wanted_ to talk to the king. Unfortunately he was now aware that the Grey Warden wanted to discuss something with Cailan _without_ him being present. Getting Cailan alone for a few minutes tomorrow was going to be…challenging.

#

"That was quick. Nothing untoward happened I hope." Brennan's jocular greeting held a worried undertone, and the fact that he'd clearly been waiting for Duncan's return rather than heading for his own tent – over in the second Grey Warden camp on the east side of the defences – only emphasised his concern.

"Unless you count being interrupted by Loghain, no, nothing untoward." He made no mention of the Teyrn's comment, or the state of his own hands.

Brennan gave a sigh of relief, followed quickly by a laugh. "Well and good then." He fell into step at Duncan's side and they continued into the camp. "Most of the lads have turned in for the night, the recruits as well – I figured you'd want to send them out early tomorrow."

"Yes, with Alistair I think."

Brennan snorted. "I dread to imagine what would happen if you sent _Murphy_ with them."

Though more than competent enough on the battlefield, off it, the joke went that Murphy existed to prove that _anything_ could be dangerous if you tried hard enough. Not that he actually went _looking_ for trouble, but it seemed to constantly find him, regardless of what he was doing. If he slept in a tent it wasn't unusual to find in the morning that it had collapsed on him during the night, and if he slept in a bedroll in the open you could almost guarantee that it would rain.

It was a constant source of speculation as to how he'd survived the Joining ritual, though the last seemed to conclude that he'd angered some spirit or demon in the Fade that had consequently dedicated itself to making his life…uncomfortable. Since he managed to survive each incident, and seemed unaffected in combat, Duncan thought the theory might have some truth to it.

Murphy, when asked outright about the theory, had snappishly pointed out that he could enter the Fade and drive any such annoyance away – not quite a confirmation _or_ a rebuttal of the idea. Cian, their other mage, had merely looked amused and refused to comment when he'd been asked.

"I could send Marcus." Duncan's tone was dry – both he and Brennan knew that Marcus was as unsuited as Murphy, albeit for different reasons. Marcus was absolutely _unable_ to lead from anywhere other than the front, which wasn't a problem most of the time, but when half the point of sending the recruits out was for them to gather their _own_ darkspawn blood… Not to mention that these were the Wilds, home of the Chasind whom, if Marcus' antagonistic attitude towards their one Chasind warden was anything to go by, the junior warden disliked almost as much as darkspawn.

"Yeah, sure." Brennan snorted. "Might as well tell the recruits to wait here if you did that. No, Alistair's the right choice."

The only choice if they stuck with the tradition of sending one of the junior wardens with the new recruits, but the thought went unvoiced as they reached the campfire and Duncan spotted Calla.

She was sitting next to Cian, close enough that they were touching at shoulder and hip, though they both seemed focussed on the fire rather than each other. Strangely, rather than feeling jealous or angry, Duncan found himself relieved. It made no sense. Sitting so close to someone was intimate, far more so than merely _talking_ to them. And there was no good reason for their close proximity to each other – they were the only two, aside from him and Brennan, near the fire.

Brennan, following the direction of Duncan's gaze, shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine – but you should've seen the look Cian turned on his shininess when he recognised Calla and wandered over for a chat." He chuckled, the sound causing both Calla and Cian to look up and spot Duncan.

Calla smiled at him, the expression wiping away the gloom from her earlier contemplation of the fire. She glanced to her side at Cian briefly, touching her hand to his shoulder as he went to stand, though she didn't speak. Cian patted her fingers, also silent, and then rose, giving Duncan a slight nod before turning and retreating into the darkness of the camp.

Enigmatic as ever, Duncan thought. Cian could say with a single gesture what some people spent their whole lives trying to articulate. In this case, a multitude of well wishes and congratulations, as well as a mild sorrow – or at least, that was what Duncan _thought_ the Grey Warden had implied with his nod.

Dismissing Cian from his thoughts, Duncan returned Calla's smile and walked over to join her, taking the mage's recently vacated seat on the log. Instantly Calla leaned against him, wrapping her arm around his waist – a gesture he automatically mirrored. He inhaled, nose filling with the slightly musky scent of her sweat, feeling a multitude of small tensions evaporate as he sighed contentedly.

"Alright?" Calla asked quietly, voice concerned.

Across the fire Duncan saw Brennan smile broadly and turn away, no doubt as much to give them some privacy as to make his way over to the other Grey Warden camp on the east side of the defences. "Better now. You?"

"Oh," he could hear the grin in her voice, "I've survived a conversation with," a snicker, "his _shininess_ – I'm not sure the darkspawn can be any worse." His hand tightened involuntarily on her side, and it was clear that she'd felt it when she tensed. "It bothers you that I talked to him. Why?"

Duncan forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle. He'd done enough damage to himself already this evening, he didn't want to subject Calla to that same, crushing grip. "Irrational jealousy." He confessed.

"But you didn't look like you wanted to tear Cian limb-from-limb…" Calla muttered, clearly more to herself than to him. "Something else to do with the taint?"

"Maybe." Duncan sighed. "I don't know for certain."

She hummed to herself, then relaxed against him once more. When she spoke again her tone was wicked. "Possessive…I like the sound of that. Do I get to be possessive back?"

Duncan couldn't help but laugh and pull her tighter to his side. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

They looked at each other, both smiling, and then they were kissing, a soft, loving kiss that quickly heated up into something deeper and more needy. For all their levity, both of them were aware that this could be their last night together.

Calla pulled away first, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, panting for breath. "Tent." She managed to gasp. "_Now_."

#

Quite how they made it into his tent – mercifully close to the fire – Duncan wasn't sure. He also wasn't sure how Calla managed to divest him of his armour so quickly. What he _was_ sure of was that he wanted her, _needed_ her with a desperate intensity. She'd been the one to call him possessive – and she hadn't minded, had actually seemed to _like_ the idea, to want to possess him in return, a sentiment that sent a dark thrill up his spine.

Somewhat roughly he helped pull the splint jerkin over her head, leaving them both naked from the waist up. Constrained by the limited space in the tent, they reluctantly separated to struggle out of their boots and the rest of their clothes. Within moments of that being achieved Calla was pressed against him again, all shivering need and dripping arousal.

"Want you in me, _now_." She whispered huskily, and Duncan felt any semblance of control evaporate.

With a hoarse groan he rolled so that she was beneath him and he pressed himself inside her. For a moment, as the sensation of tight heat assaulted him and left him light-headed, he was unable to move, fighting to remember how to breathe. Then the feeling receded enough to let him hear her faint, begging mutters, to let him see how her eyes were closed and her head tossed back, already looking thoroughly debauched.

His hips began to move, quick, fierce thrusts that had her hissing a litany of 'more' and 'Maker' and 'yes'. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, tight enough to bruise, tight enough to feel the faint bite of her nails.

Duncan shuddered and stilled briefly, gripping Calla's hips and pulling her with him as he sat back on his heels. She gasped and writhed as they changed position, wrapping her legs around his waist and trying to pull herself closer, to drag him deeper inside her.

His breath hissed out, eyes falling closed as he gathered his momentarily scattered thoughts. His hands released her hips, sliding up her sides and behind her back, urging her upright.

He watched as she obeyed, abdominal muscles tense and fluttering as she sat up, arms trembling as she wrapped them around his shoulders to anchor herself in place. "Please, so close…" She begged, grinding down against him.

Almost cruelly Duncan raked his nails down her back, from shoulder to ass, hard enough to leave raised welts and spots of blood. Calla stiffened and came, shaking against him, biting his shoulder hard enough to break the skin as she muffled her cry. He gripped her waist – as hard as he hadn't wanted to earlier – and forced his own orgasm back, despite the way her release was working her inner muscles along his length.

He waited a moment, letting the urgency of his own need die down, letting Calla catch her breath. "Get on your hands and knees," he whispered once her inner muscles had stilled.

With a breathy moan – and a slight whimper of loss as they separated – she did as she was told, looking back at him over her shoulder, expression pleading.

With a moan of his own, Duncan knelt up and pressed back inside her. Calla's head dropped down, the faintest suggestion of needy whimpering escaping from where she was muffling herself with her mouth pressed against her arm.

Bending at the waist, Duncan draped himself over her back, letting her support his weight as he toyed with her breasts. "Touch yourself. And let me hear you – let _them_ hear you. I want them to know you're _mine_."

Calla shifted slightly, bracing herself – and him – on one arm as her opposite hand darted to her sex. Briefly her fingers explored the point where they were joined, then retreated to tease herself as he'd bidden. The sounds that drifted from her lips, whilst not overly loud, were nonetheless uncensored.

Satisfied, Duncan pushed himself upright again and began to move, losing himself in the sensation, in the sound of Calla's harsh breaths and gasped moans. What felt like an eternity later, they both came, with a guttural groan that could have belonged to either – or both – of them.

As they collapsed together onto the bedrolls, barely coherent enough to arrange themselves comfortably and pull the blankets over the top, Duncan could have sworn he heard the distant sound of cheering and wolf-whistles.

#

It wasn't quite dawn when he woke, though there was enough ambient light to make out Calla's pale shoulder where the blankets had slipped down slightly. Enough light to see the darker lines where his nails had scored down her back.

Duncan frowned, aware that his ability to _remember_ inflicting the wounds meant that he hadn't been completely out of it at the time. He _should_ have been rational enough to stop himself – and yet the evidence suggested that either he hadn't, or his definition of 'rational' was becoming skewed.

Remorseful, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to each of the marks, three to each shoulder. Just because he knew she wouldn't care about the damage, it didn't stop him from regretting having caused it. Didn't stop him from wondering if, along with his decaying control, he would do ever greater harm to her, possibly to the point where it was fatal.

"Mm?" And now he'd gone and woken her.

Duncan grimaced again. "Didn't mean to wake you." He murmured.

"Mmph…" There was a brief moment, as she moved away from him, that Duncan felt sure she was making a point. Then, with a faint grunt and a wince, she rolled onto her back and let her head loll to the side, looking at him.

He couldn't meet her eyes. "I'm sorry." He whispered, aware that unless she could find a mage see to her injuries she would be stiff and sore whilst she was trying to stay alive out in the Wilds. And she wasn't going to have _time_ to find a mage.

"I don't think," she murmured softly, speculatively, "that I have _ever_ come so hard in my life – once, never mind twice."

Duncan blinked, self recriminations utterly derailed by her statement. "That doesn't excuse my lack of control." He finally managed, meeting her gaze in an attempt to impress upon her how serious this was.

"It's getting worse then." She sighed, extricating an arm from the blankets so she could press her hand against the side of his face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. Such a simple statement, on the surface. But here and now, between the two of them, it held much deeper, more complex meanings.

"Yes," he agreed.

Calla stared at him and then nodded, faint frown lines betraying her unhappiness. But she didn't cry, or protest, and she didn't ask him if he _could_ control it – something that came as a great relief, because every answer, every reassurance that he might have given sounded like a lie in his head.

"If you decide it…_this_, is too dangerous," she stated carefully, "then I'll trust your judgement."

Duncan thought he felt his heart breaking – and he wasn't sure whether it was at the thought of having to tell Calla to stay away for her own good, or because she was reassuring him that she wouldn't make such a decision harder than it needed to be. For either of them.

"But," she added, more fiercely, "don't think I'm going to break if you get a little rough."

He was too emotional to reply immediately, instead turning his head to kiss the palm of her hand. "Thank you." He managed to whisper after a moment.

Raised voices as the camp began to stir dispelled the tent's illusion of privacy, and Calla grinned at him. "I guess it's time to get up and face the music." There was a hint of red in her cheeks, belying her seeming unconcern.

Duncan groaned, the memory of cat-calls and bawdy cheers swimming to the forefront of his mind. "I don't think anyone's going to be surprised to see you leaving my tent." He muttered, feeling his face heating up.

Calla snickered, pushing the blankets away from herself and stretching. "I thought that was the point of letting them hear me."

Had he…? Dear Maker, Duncan realised, he _had_. The heat in his face was now so intense that he thought it was probably visible, dark Rivaini skin notwithstanding.

Though he was by no means an innocent chantry lad, neither was he an Antivan Casanova. He was calm and collected, slightly aloof, always _The Commander_. Somehow he suspected that he'd probably gone and blurred that unspoken line between him and the other wardens that, previously, only Brennan had bridged. Quite how the rest of the wardens were going to react he wasn't sure – though he had the scant consolation that most of them probably didn't know how _he_ was going to react either.

"Help me with this?" Calla asked quietly, distracting him. She had her back to him, the two ends of a strip of linen going across her chest held meaningfully in his direction. Surely she could…?

Oh.

"Of course." Duncan murmured, taking the ends and helping her with the strapping. There was something relaxing, _domestic_, about the process, about sharing a task you could have done alone with someone else. For these few shards of 'normality', these brief moments of utter peace and contentment – even from the growing whispers of the darkspawn horde and the dark urges of his Calling – Duncan realised he didn't _care_ what anyone else thought.

In the end, only the Maker had any right to judge him.

#


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; Dwarven Commoner Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: Finally, we get to the Joining. Thanks as ever to my beta Thessali (who really had her work cut out with this chapter!)

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: Mild language

**Spoilers for**: The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

#

Calla ducked out of the tent first, leaving Duncan to finish fastening his sabatons and weapons in place – a task he had barely completed when the canvas shuddered. Uproarious laughter greeted what had, apparently, been a worthy pratfall – someone stumbling over a rope or peg unless he missed his guess.

"Pay up Brennan!" Though he knew his wardens well, there were only a few who Duncan could identify by voice alone. This was not one of them. "Looks like Murphy caught himself a woman after all!"

"Said _he_ couldn't catch a woman," Brennan's voice retorted, "nothing about a woman catching _him_!" More laughter. It sounded as if all of the Grey Wardens assigned to the west defences, twenty-three in total, were sitting around the fire.

There was an amused snort from just outside the tent. It sounded like Calla, presumably reacting to something Murphy had said. "And here I thought the 'catch of the day' was seafood," her voice was loud enough that it seemed obvious she wanted everyone to hear, "or does the timing of your fall count as 'fishy'?"

A mix of laughter and groans greeted her pun, and after a moment, more than a little curious now, Duncan emerged from the tent himself. He stretched and twisted, settling the various layers of his armour and weapons into place, inadvertently drawing the attention of everyone except those few with their backs to his tent.

"Sleep well?" Brennan enquired with a broad grin and entirely exaggerated wink.

"Eventually…" The sniggers and mocking comments that immediately arose around the mutterer identified him as Sean, a tall, rangy man whose only distinguishing features were his sarcastic attitude and his aversion to physical combat against anything other than darkspawn.

"Better than some, it seems." Duncan answered Brennan calmly, a slight twitch of his lips the only indication of his amusement.

If Sean had any further response, this time he kept it to himself.

Helping himself to a share of breakfast – slightly stale bread and the re-heated remnants of a meat-heavy stew – Duncan sat in the last space left in the circle of logs around the fire. It wasn't next to Calla, but though he would have liked nothing better than to sit next to her, to enjoy her company for every moment he could, this was actually for the best. The wardens were used to him being slightly aloof, slightly distant, and always practical. A physical distance between himself and the _recruit_ that he was sleeping with would reassure many of them. The hours before battle were not the time for people to start wondering if his judgement was impaired in any way.

Brennan seemed to have a different opinion. "Oi, Cian, Dargan, one of you shift and let the lovebirds sit next to each other."

"Some of us prefer our eyes undamaged by such cloyingly sweet displays." Cian retorted coldly, saving Duncan from having to think of an excuse to countermand Brennan's demand.

"You'd just melt away completely you miserable ass." Marcus…

Cian's head snapped in the junior warden's direction, eyes narrowed dangerously, and the rest of the Grey Wardens froze in anticipation of the mage's retaliation.

"Enough." Duncan's voice cut across the tense silence, his expression foreboding enough that the sneer on Marcus' face vanished completely. "I expect the battle will come tonight – you all know what to do, where your places are. Senior wardens, Marcus, Murphy, your time is your own until then."

A mix of verbal and visual acknowledgements greeted his words, the majority of the wardens choosing to take them as a dismissal – Marcus in particular wasted no time in leaving the group's circle, though whether he was fleeing from Cian's wrath or Duncan's was debateable.

"Alistair, you're in charge of the recruits." Unsurprisingly the blond didn't look especially pleased by the statement, but Duncan didn't think he'd have too much trouble, despite the distinctly unimpressed look the dwarven recruit, Nora, was giving the poor lad. It was a shame, Duncan thought, that he wouldn't have a chance to really talk to the other three recruits, or watch their interactions, until after they survived their Joining. _If_ they survived their Joining.

"Once they're fed, make sure they have everything else they'll need. You know where to meet me for your instructions." He waited until Alistair nodded in confirmation. "You've got a couple of hours, so no need to rush." He said, more for Alistair's benefit than anyone else's, though it was scant consolation going by the junior warden's brief grimace.

"Cian, Brennan," Duncan looked at each in turn, "a word with you both."

He rose and walked away from the fire towards the main camp, not needing to look to know that the other two wardens were following.

#

"That was cold of you."

Duncan sighed at Brennan's words, but, once again, Cian beat him to a response.

"The Commander cannot have a _heart_." He said, as if explaining to a child. "And it is the _Commander_ who leads us. _Calla_ understands this." The question 'why can't you?' seemed to hover in the air.

Brennan scowled.

"I said _enough_." Duncan stated firmly before the situation could escalate further. "You're a romantic Brennan," he clapped the man on the shoulder to reassure him that it wasn't meant to be an insult, "but those with a more…_practical_ view need to understand that this changes nothing as far as they're concerned." The scowl on his Second's face shifted into tight-lipped disapproval. "And," Duncan continued, "as Cian said, Calla no doubt understood exactly what was happening. She is, after all, a very practical woman."

"No doubt you're right – as usual." Brennan muttered grudgingly. "I just…" He looked away, but not before Duncan caught a glimpse of old, remembered pain and regret etched on his face. "I hope you don't regret it…that's all."

The three of them were silent. Duncan was willing to let his Second have a moment to compose himself, and Cian was apparently content to keep his own council.

"Alright," Brennan said after a moment, turning back to face them, "orders?"

"I want you to get the mages started on preparing for the Joining." Duncan gave him a hard look, knowing that the task would require all the diplomacy his Second could muster. "Consider it a reminder that I'm perfectly capable of asking someone to move if I want them to."

Brennan winced, but didn't argue.

"Once you've done that you can go back to the east defences – you know what you're doing there. I'll let you know if anything in the battle plan changes."

"Bah – not going to happen." Brennan snorted. "Well, if nothing changes and I don't see you before the battle, it's been an honour knowing you. Both of you."

"Likewise." Duncan agreed with a faint, sad smile, clasping the other man's forearm in a gesture that conveyed so much more than words ever could. Cian, rather than speaking, instead bowed deeply to his fellow warden.

With a sigh Brennan turned away. "Circle mages…wonderful."

Duncan chuckled as his Second strode off, no doubt muttering balefully about the task he'd been given, then turned to Cian. For a moment he silently contemplated the mage, the _shapeshifter_ – a regard that was solemnly and equally quietly returned.

"I need a distraction to keep Loghain occupied for upwards of fifteen minutes. Something that doesn't disrupt the whole camp, or require Cailan's attention."

Cian's expression turned thoughtful, and then he nodded, a wicked smirk spreading across his face. Without anything further being said, the mage departed, heading back in the direction of the western grey warden camp, though he doubted that was the mage's ultimate destination.

Duncan continued onward to the bonfire where he'd met the king the night before. It offered a good view of the Royal enclave, meaning Loghain couldn't slip out without being noticed, whilst being far enough away that it didn't look as though he was purposefully loitering.

Not that Loghain would believe for a moment that he was standing there _coincidentally_. But Loghain could believe what he would; Duncan was far enough away that the teyrn couldn't accuse him of anything without appearing overly paranoid, and all he needed was a few minutes alone with Cailan…

#

When an ear-shattering neigh – at least for those in close proximity to its source – split the air, Duncan finally understood the wicked grin that Cian had worn, and had to consciously stop himself from mirroring the expression. It wasn't the sound of a horse in pain, rather it was the sound of a stallion baulked from its one true love by a length of rope and, probably, some rather panicked grooms.

Duncan forced himself to act normally, to look curiously in the direction of the picket lines where the few horses were tethered – well back from where the front lines would be, though not too far for the king to retreat if necessary – and then dismiss the ruckus as none of his business.

He would need to congratulate Cian later; Loghain emerged from his tent in a state of disarray, caught without his chevalier armour for once, and didn't even look around before hurrying towards the continuing sounds of the stallion's frustration.

Briskly, though not so much so that he appeared hurried, Duncan strode over to Cailan's tent and nodded to the guard standing outside it. "Is his majesty awake?"

The guard grinned, as if to say 'who wouldn't be with _that_ noise?' and briefly stuck his head through the tent's flaps. "Go on in Ser Warden." He said when he pulled back, moving out of Duncan's way as he took his post up again.

With a nod of thanks, Duncan slipped into the tent.

"Why," a rather rumpled-looking Cailan began as the tent flaps fell closed behind the grey warden, "am I unsurprised to have a visitor, scarcely minutes after Atlas decided to make sure everyone in camp was awake?"

"I really couldn't say your majesty." Duncan demurred, not sure whether the king was jesting, or whether his question boded ill for the reception of his request.

Cailan laughed. "I should've refused to see you after the way you abandoned me to Loghain last night."

A trap? "I…apologise, your majesty."

Cailan frowned. "Please, no need to be so formal Duncan, Cailan will do. Anyway, I'm too curious to throw you out – what did you want to speak of that you don't wish Loghain to overhear?"

Not a trap – Duncan felt himself relax slightly. "By tonight we hope to have at least one new warden in our ranks, but the front line of battle is no place for them so soon after the Joining ritual. I hoped you might know of some role they could play behind the lines – along with Alistair, one of our junior wardens, to keep an eye on them."

Cailan had been nodding as Duncan spoke, but he tensed at Alistair's name. "Alistair? Why him in particular? I thought you had three junior wardens – why not one of the other two?"

His voice was sharp, his gaze suspicious, but that didn't necessarily mean he was asking the questions for the reason Duncan _thought_ he was asking them. "We do have three junior wardens, that's true." He conceded. "Alistair is the one I have assigned to guide the recruits through the Joining ritual and to mentor those who become wardens. If you command, then of course one of the others may watch over the newest wardens during the battle." Genevieve, Duncan thought wryly, would have had his hide for that last concession, though in truth it had been her decision to kneel before King Maric that had taught him how flexible the grey warden code of independence really was.

"No, no – you wouldn't have chosen anyone other than the best suited to the task. Alistair is fine." Cailan hesitated for a moment. "Why do you not wish Loghain to know this is a request from you?" He asked curiously.

"It may save some argument, although not much, I'm sure." Duncan answered honestly. "It will at least stop him from claiming that it's part of some elaborate plot against you."

Cailan chuckled. "That's true enough. Though, I have to wonder if you don't have _some _ulterior motive." It wasn't quite a question, though the king's eyebrow lifted in enquiry.

Duncan debated for a moment, but Cailan had always struck him as honest enough, even if he was naïve in many respects. "The grey wardens will take heavy losses in the battle to come." He stated gravely. "It may be that all of us on the front lines will not live to see the dawn tomorrow." A raised hand halted the king before he could interrupt with some optimistic denial. "If that should happen, there is still a good chance that Alistair and the newest wardens will survive, that Ferelden will not be left without a single grey warden." He paused, expression hard. "They are insurance, your majesty."

Cailan, more serious than Duncan had seen him before, nodded slowly. "I understand. I will insist that Alistair and the new wardens be sent to keep watch on the signal beacon, if that is acceptable?"

"Perfectly, your majesty."

"Good!" Cailan grinned, but there was a hard, feral edge to it. "I haven't spent the last five years blocking any attempts to kick the grey wardens out of Ferelden, just to let Loghain get you all killed." He cocked his head to one side, and Duncan realised the sounds from Loghain's stallion had died away.

"I should go – I have much to attend to before the battle."

"Of course." Cailan nodded. "And Duncan – I _will_ get you to call me Cailan one day."

Duncan smiled, wondering if perhaps there wasn't more of Maric in the king than he'd imagined. "I'm sure you will, your majesty."

He ducked out of the tent, the sound of Cailan's laughter chasing him briefly, and strode back to the bonfire to wait for Alistair and the recruits.

#

The approach of Alistair and his four recruits was…interesting. Alistair was in the lead, his posture that of someone trying hard _not_ to look like he expected a knife in his back at any moment. Behind him and slightly to the side came Nora, the dwarven woman who clearly wanted to be the one to stab him. Next to Alistair's would-be assassin was a slightly-limping, but amused, Daveth. Ser Jory and Calla brought up the rear, the former looking as if he was following a group of madmen, the latter, like Daveth, looking amused.

"Do I have to do this?" Alistair muttered, taking up a position to one side of Duncan.

Duncan smiled slightly, but otherwise ignored the question, concentrating instead on the recruits now that their attention had diverted from Alistair to him. Ser Jory looked nervously determined, Daveth just looked determined, but his tense posture belied his nerves. Calla was politely attentive, and Nora was frowning impatiently, absently picking at the dirt beneath one fingernail with the tip of a dagger.

"You five will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks." Duncan stated, watching the reaction of the recruits. Ser Jory paled slightly, and Daveth looked slightly smug – as if he'd already suspected they were to be sent into the Wilds – but both Calla and Nora's expressions remained unchanged. "The first task is to obtain four vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit."

As he spoke, he passed one empty glass vial to each recruit – enchanted, like all such vials, to remain unbroken. Ser Jory took his uncertainly, staring at it for a long moment before tucking it away in a pouch. Daveth was frowning, but his hand was steady as it took his vial, securing it in a loop on a leather strap made for keeping potions and poisons easy to access. Nora virtually snatched her vial from him, wrapping her small hand tightly around the glass before stuffing it inside the small bag at her hip. Duncan could understand why Brennan thought she would make a good berserker, although he hoped the chip on her shoulder, presumably due to having been casteless in Orzammar's caste-driven society, would wear away in time.

Calla, to whom he passed the last vial, took it with a faint smile and a murmured 'thank you'. He thought her fingers brushed against his, but the sensation was more than likely a product of his imagination – they were both wearing gloves after all, gauntlets in his case.

"What's the second task then?" The voice was deep and slightly coarse, eminently suited to the dwarven woman to whom it belonged.

"There was once a grey warden archive in the Wilds," Duncan explained mildly, his words more or less verbatim from what he'd been told in the curt Orlesian missive that had, almost reluctantly, informed _him_ of the archive's existence. "It was abandoned long ago, when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts." Abandoned even before Sophia Dryden's ill fated rebellion and the order's expulsion from Ferelden. "It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls were left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair," Duncan turned towards the junior warden, "I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can."

"And if they ain't there?" Nora challenged, head held high, arms defiantly folded.

"It is possible the scrolls may have been destroyed or even stolen," Duncan agreed, and his approving nod seemed to startle the antagonistic dwarf, "though the seal's magic should have protected them. Only a grey warden can break such a seal."

"I don't understand…why leave such things in a ruin if they're so valuable?" Alistair was frowning, clearly confused.

Duncan shrugged slightly. "It was assumed we would someday return. A great many things were assumed that have not held true." Such as the assumption that the Ferelden grey wardens would be nothing more than Orlesian spies – but Duncan had held too much regard for Maric to permit that particular assumption to become a reality.

"How do we find this archive?" Nora demanded, apparently determined to make Duncan acknowledge her rude behaviour.

"It will be an overgrown ruin by now, but the sealed chest should have remained intact. Alistair will guide you to the area you need to search." He replied calmly, refusing to rise to her bait.

"Find the archive and four vials of blood." Nora's mouth was open, but it was Calla who spoke, her clear voice cutting off whatever combative comment the dwarf was about to make. "Understood."

"The scrolls contain treaties promising support." Duncan explained, distracting Nora from focusing her spite on Calla. "Treaties that may prove valuable in the days to come." He looked from one recruit to the next, not looking away until each one nodded a solemn acknowledgement. "Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly, and safely."

"We will." Alistair's response was solemn, albeit slightly worried, but Duncan had every confidence in him, more confidence than Alistair had in himself.

"Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return."

#

With Alistair and the recruits sent off into the Wilds on their respective errands, and Cailan successfully petitioned to keep at least one grey warden out of the coming fight, Duncan was free to see to the other pre-battle tasks demanding his attention.

Grey wardens gave up everything, renouncing all ties to family and titles – at least in principal. In reality the order, at least in Ferelden, was a little more flexible about such things. Although volunteers and conscripts usually had traumatic histories that they were actively trying to escape through becoming a warden, recruits generally had friends and families that they had to leave behind. Most didn't have a problem with it, beyond the occasional bout of homesickness, but Duncan had found it improved morale if they knew that, when they died, those they'd left behind weren't left to wonder what had happened.

As small as the order in Ferelden was – all forty-nine of them, not counting the four recruits, were here at Ostagar, split between defensive camps on each side of the valley – Duncan knew each of his wardens, why they'd joined, and who, if anyone, they'd left behind. He spoke with each of them as he made his way around the west camp – Brennan would be doing the same over in the east camp – accepting, and in some cases scribing, brief messages to be passed on should the worst happen.

The activity took time, and made sure that every grey warden on that side of the defences had seen him, serene and unworried as ever – or at least, that was the impression he _tried_ to give. Duncan could _feel_ the first suggestion of the horde's vanguard, an uneasy rumbling on the edge of consciousness and at the back of the mind, a psychic echo of the blight-storm over the deep forest.

Sensitivity to the darkspawn grew over time, so Duncan knew that even if a few of the more senior wardens could feel the same as him, the majority – and the junior wardens – would, as yet, be unable to feel it for themselves. A minor reprieve in some respects, although they would undoubtedly find themselves unconsciously reacting to the body language of their seniors.

Grey wardens thirsted for darkspawn blood as much as darkspawn thirsted for the blood of anything untainted – though not as literally. It was that eagerness which allowed them to face the darkspawn without flinching, allowed them to match their vicious intensity in combat. Though their targets were not the same, it was at the height of the urge to kill that the understanding of the darkspawn, that sense which allowed a grey warden to anticipate what they were going to do, was at its clearest. Or at least, that was how Duncan found it.

Certainly it was true that grey wardens who _didn't _throw themselves into a fight with darkspawn, mentally and physically, seemed to make the most mistakes, to die first. That didn't mean Brennan – or any other berserker – was safest, because he wasn't. The best grey wardens, and Duncan liked to think that he had more than a few of them in _his_ order, were those who could commit themselves to the battle without being overwhelmed, blinded to their surroundings and the tactical opportunities that might arise.

Once he'd spoken to everyone, Duncan retreated to the privacy of his tent to write his own missives.

It took longer than he'd expected, the words refusing to come without a fight, as if they could ensure his survival only if he didn't acknowledge the very real possibility of his death. He was interrupted once, by Brennan, who took one look at his expression and handed over a few more letters – these from the wardens on the east defences – before silently leaving him alone again.

Finally he was done, the three letters written, folded, sealed and labelled. He tied them into a thin bundle with those of the other wardens, ready to slip inside the scrolls that he'd tasked Alistair with retrieving. Still, Duncan hesitated to leave the tent. It felt wrong that, if the worst came to the worst, he would be leaving Calla with nothing more than memories, responsibilities and unfeeling parchment – assuming that she survived the Joining, of course, though he could no longer bring himself to imagine that she would not.

After a moment an idea came to him, and he rummaged through a small chest of possessions, hands quickly closing on what he sought. He smiled as he lifted the leather belt out, carefully untangling the sheathed daggers that hung from it as he did so. There was nothing ostentatious about either belt, sheaths or daggers. The leather was dark and smooth from the oil that had been rubbed into it to keep it supple over the years, and the colour of its stitching varied where it had been necessary to make repairs in the past. But it was sturdy and clearly of good quality. Likewise the wooden handle of each dagger had been worn smooth with use, and the pommels were utilitarian – undecorated.

The understatement of all that, however, only served to emphasise the splendour of the blades themselves. Duncan drew them both, one after the other, laying them across his knees. Like the armour he was wearing they gleamed almost with a light of their own, rippling patterns in the very metal itself seeming to shift and sway as he inspected them both for nicks or scratches. He didn't expect to find any, and he wasn't disappointed.

His smile turned melancholy as he recalled the time he'd shown these same daggers to Maric. He'd been showing off – though he wouldn't have admitted it at the time. Genevieve had given the weapons to him not long after he'd survived the Joining, as an apology he'd thought at the time, and for a long while after. Only later, just before he'd been sent to Ferelden, had he learned the history – and true significance – of her gesture. It was somehow fitting that he pass them on to his _own_ chosen successor after her Joining.

Resolute, he fastened the belt around his waist and slipped the daggers back into their sheaths. It would also be fitting that they be present for the final part of the ritual, that they spilled the lifeblood of any of the recruits who lacked the courage and determination to drink of the taint – that, after all, was _also_ the responsibility of a Warden Commander.

#

It was a little after midday when Alistair and the others returned from the Wilds. Duncan had left the bonfire in the main camp where he'd been waiting for them, planning to grab some of whatever meat had been cooked in the grey warden camp before returning to his vigil, and at first he thought Alistair had had the same idea. But further observation revealed a wary look on the junior warden's face, as if he was up to something and didn't want to get caught at it.

Unfortunately for Alistair, he noticed Duncan too late, his expression briefly horrified before Calla – one leg smothered in crimson – supported by Daveth on one side, and Ser Jory on the other, awkwardly rounded the corner of a tent together and nearly trampled him.

Duncan couldn't help it – he started laughing.

By the time the recruits got themselves straightened out and Alistair had been persuaded – bullied, really – into joining Duncan near the fire, he'd managed to bring his mirth back under control. It was tempting to tease Alistair about 'letting' Calla get injured, but Duncan knew that, for now at least, such teasing would inevitably be taken too seriously. Best to let the lad recover his equilibrium and come to terms with the reality of the situation – _no one had died_.

Still, the scene had been pure comedy, and Duncan savoured his amusement. Besides, it was through moments like these that the recruits – and the wardens – would bond, as well as allowing him to better understand the recruits and their personalities.

"What happened?"

"What do you think happened?" Calla asked wryly when it became clear Alistair wasn't going to say anything. "You sent three city-boys, a dwarva, and a coastlands-girl into the big, dark forest."

"We, er, had some trouble with wolves on the way back." Daveth clarified.

"Not darkspawn?" Duncan asked mildly, fighting back more laughter. At least, having been blooded by _wolves_ of all things, this group of recruits wouldn't suffer from swelled egos about their ability to face down darkspawn.

"Darkspawn, hah!" Nora snorted, her broad grin – proving there _was_ more than mere bile and spite to the dwarva woman – disturbingly cheerful and eerily reminiscent of Brennan. "Ugly soddin' bastards – but nug-humping _wusses_ for all that."

Ser Jory, Duncan noted, seemed rather less than sanguine about Nora's proclamation, although the other three merely took it in stride – if Alistair was even listening; he looked to be lost in gloomy thoughts, no doubt beating himself up over one of 'his' recruits getting hurt. "Then you have the vials of blood? And what of the treaties?"

Everyone looked in Alistair's direction, but it wasn't until Calla elbowed Ser Jory in the ribs and jerked her head towards the junior warden, prompting the knight to pass the nudge on, that the blond reacted.

"What?" He looked around, startled and slightly worried.

"The treaties, _cloudhead_." Nora snapped.

"Oh, right, yes." A faint blush on his cheekbones, presumably embarrassment at having needed to be reminded of why they were there, Alistair pulled a scroll-case from the pack at his feet and handed it to Duncan. "There was a woman at the tower and her mother had the scrolls. They were both very…odd."

A glance at each of the recruits showed a general agreement with Alistair's description. "Were they wilder folk?"

"I…don't think so. They might be apostates – mages in hiding from the Chantry."

"I know you were once a templar, Alistair, but Chantry business is not ours." Duncan hid his smile behind a frown, wondering if the lad was even aware that he'd explained a term only Nora might not have known. Aware or not, it boded well, demonstrating that he _could_ think like a leader, taking the needs of his individual companions into account, but not singling them out. "We have the scrolls; let us focus on the Joining."

"About time." The dwarven woman growled, posture tense, ready to react at a moment's notice.

Duncan smiled, seeing the wariness in her expression. "The Circle mages have been preparing. With the blood you've retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately."

Calla was the first to hand him her full vial, expression unreadable, though the tension in her jaw was as telling as the lines around Nora's eyes. It was a rare recruit indeed who could face the Joining without a degree of trepidation, whether they knew what was coming or not. The others quickly followed her example, handing over the blood as if glad to be rid of it.

"Let me be very clear." He warned. "You are not volunteers. Whether you were conscripted or recruited, you were chosen because you are needed." Duncan's expression was hard as he looked at each recruit in turn. "You must gather your courage for what comes next."

"Courage?" It was Daveth who spoke, his expression openly worried. "How much danger are we in?"

"I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later." Duncan smiled sadly.

"Let's go then." Nora spoke up again, her voice impatient. "I want to see this Joining now."

"I agree. Let's have it done." Somewhat unexpectedly, the stout statement came from Ser Jory, but the pallor of his skin showed him to be rather more uncertain than he sounded.

Duncan nodded. He wanted this over as much as the recruits, though for different reasons. "Then let us begin. Alistair, take them to the old temple."

#

"…_casteless?_" The harsh word drifted lazily on the thin afternoon breeze, reaching Duncan's ears as he approached the temple ruins with the chalice of blood. He hastened his steps a little, unsurprised that the growing tension had sparked an argument amongst the four eclectic recruits. In many ways this was the penultimate test – it sometimes happened that such an argument devolved into an all-out fight, often lethal for one or more of those involved.

"Whoa! Let's not do anything hasty here!" …such a shame that Alistair didn't realise that he wasn't meant to interfere.

"Should've known you _cloudheads_ would stick together. You think I can't take the both of you?"

With a sigh, Duncan prepared to intervene.

"_Enough_." Calla's voice was stone – no, _ice_. There was no anger, no panic, simply a command given that _would_ be obeyed, and Maker help those who didn't.

Duncan hesitated and then decided to let the scene play out before him as it would. No one had called attention to his presence, only Alistair in a position to see him without turning, and the junior warden was currently staring at Calla with a rather bemused expression.

"Your words were discourteous in the extreme, _Ser_ Jory. I suggest you apologise immediately."

"I… You are right milady." The knight sounded chastened, no doubt reminded of the ideals he was _supposed_ to embody by Calla's emphasis of his title. "I humbly beg your pardon Nora. I've never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade and I spoke in anger."

There was a long pause, and Duncan wondered if the dwarf was as willing to forgive as Jory had been to apologise. Berserkers were known for _losing_ their tempers, not reining them in once unleashed, and clearly the knight had touched a very sensitive nerve by bringing up Nora's caste – or lack thereof.

"Fine." The grumbled word was curt and obviously reluctant, yet it was an acceptance of the apology, however tentative, and some of the tension almost visibly left the group.

"Maybe you'll die." Daveth said into the silence, presumably continuing whatever discussion they'd been having before things degenerated. "Maybe we'll all die." The thief shrugged, head moving slightly as he looked at each of his fellow recruits in turn. "If nobody stops the darkspawn, we'll _all_ die – for sure."

That, to Duncan, sounded like an excellent cue for his entrance.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining," he declared, striding towards the weathered stone altar, "but these words have been said since the first." He placed the chalice carefully on the altar's surface, then turned to look at the attentive group standing before him. "Alistair," he glanced at the junior warden, "if you would?"

Clearly nervous, the blond closed his eyes and bowed his head, as if he was praying, or perhaps concentrating on remembering the words from his own Joining. "Join us, brothers and sisters."

Duncan watched the recruits and their reactions. Ser Jory had copied Alistair's pose, either feeling it appropriate for the solemnity of the moment, or sending some last minute prayers to the Maker.

"Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant."

Daveth was watching the junior warden with a frown of determination, clearly committing the words to memory in case they were some sort of riddle or held the key to whatever test came next.

"Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn."

Nora's expression was fixed, like the Stone the dwarves revered, but like stone, there were cracks - flaws. She looked scared, and a little lost, as if she was poised at the great doors of Orzammar, about to find out if all those old wives tales of falling upwards into the sky were true. He wondered if she'd looked the same way when she _had_ left Orzammar, or if she'd set her jaw, bared her teeth, and stepped outside _daring_ the tales to be true. Somehow the latter seemed likely.

And Calla…

"And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, _we_ shall join _you_."

Calla wasn't staring at Alistair but at him, eyes gleaming with unshed tears, her face unashamedly showing the feelings that Nora was fighting to keep hidden, her expression speaking of terrible, soul-deep comprehension. And acceptance.

Both he _and_ Brennan had been right, though Brennan slightly more so, Duncan realised, letting his gaze soften slightly as he met Calla's eyes. She and Nora would survive the Joining; Daveth and Jory would not.

Calla blinked, the shimmer of tears and the emotion on her face gone in an instant as Alistair lifted his head and the other three recruits realised he was done speaking. Duncan let his features harden again as he took the chalice from the altar. What was to come next would not be glorious, no matter what those such as Cailan liked to think. This was the moment when the recruits would lose their innocent and naïve beliefs about what the grey wardens would and would not sacrifice in order to stop the darkspawn – if they had any to lose.

"Daveth, step forward." Cruel, to deliberately choose one of the two he was certain would die, perhaps, but a grey warden often had to do things that might be considered 'cruel'.

The thief took the chalice eagerly, drinking deeply and without hesitation, despite the odour that Duncan, from his own Joining, could still recall as being the most vile thing he'd ever smelt – and that coming from an Orlesian gutter-rat. Fortunately, once a grey warden, darkspawn blood lost its aroma entirely, though otherwise an individual's sense of smell didn't seem to be affected.

Accepting the chalice back, Duncan watched regretfully as the thief began to choke, gasping for breath and trying to scream at the same time. He was aware of Jory, to the side, taking a step backwards, away from Daveth as he clawed at his throat and crumpled to the ground.

"Maker's breath!" The knight choked out, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to run, yet couldn't quite bring himself to believe that Daveth was actually _dying_ in front of them, and no one was doing anything to help.

The thief managed to look up, briefly, eyes wide and utterly blind, and then he collapsed and lay still at last. Dead at Duncan's feet.

"I am sorry, Daveth." He murmured, then turned to the horrified Jory. "Step forward, Jory." As expected – by Duncan at least – he stepped back instead, hand reaching for the hilt of the greatsword at his back.

"I have a wife. A child!" The knight exclaimed, backing up further as Duncan placed the chalice on the altar and his hand on the hilt of one of the silverite daggers. "Had I known…" Jory wailed, practically begging for a reprieve, or perhaps for Daveth to leap to his feet and declare that it had all been a joke and really it only tickled a bit.

"There is no turning back." Duncan warned, but Jory was beyond warnings, his blade already rasping the rest of the way out of its sheath.

"No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!"

No, no glory, Duncan agreed privately, the thought bitter. There was rarely any glory in what _had_ to be done, not until time faded the sharp edge of memory and the exaggerations of bards became the accepted truth.

Ruthless, to keep so much from their recruits, to test them so hard, to punish failure of those tests so harshly. Yet a grey warden needed to be ruthless, when the situation required it. They were called the _grey_ wardens for a reason, because they stood in that shadowy verge between the evil of the tainted and the purity of the untainted. The darkspawn had no morals, no honour, and often that meant that the grey wardens also had to abandon those concepts, all so that the untainted continued to have the freedom to afford such things.

Jory was clearly terrified, his attention switching erratically from Daveth's corpse to Duncan's slow, foreboding approach. One of the daggers was in Duncan's hand now, and with more years of experience than he liked to count, the fight, if it could be called that, was over in an instant. The silverite dagger slid through armour and flesh alike, and the knight managed one choked cry, high and keening, before his heart stilled and he slumped, sword clattering to the ground.

"I am sorry." Duncan murmured again, letting Jory's body fall.

Turning back to the altar he wiped the blood from the dagger and sheathed it again, pleased to note, as he did so, that both Calla and Nora remained steadfast – even if Nora was looking at Jory's corpse with a rather unbecomingly _smug_ curl of her lips.

"But the Joining is not yet complete." He turned, holding the chalice once more and intending to offer it to Calla.

"Pass it here then." Nora demanded impatiently, all but snatching the chalice from his hands and taking several large swallows before pushing it back in his direction. No sooner had he taken it than her mouth opened in a soundless scream, back arching as her limbs flailed blindly around. Her eyes opened wide, as white as Daveth's had been, but he knew – unlike Alistair, if the lad's increasingly agonised expression was anything to go by – that she would collapse, dream, and awaken in a few hours time as a grey warden.

"From this moment forth," he said, smiling slightly as he looked down on the dwarf's still form, "you are a Grey Warden."

Which left only Calla.

"I submit myself to the taint, for the greater good." Alistair's head shot up at her soft words, his expression utterly flabbergasted.

Duncan silently passed her the chalice, watching as she tilted her head back and drained the remainder of its contents down to the dregs. A trickle of blood escaped from the corner of her mouth, the dark crimson a sharp, sinful contrast against the lightly-tanned skin – he wanted nothing more than to lick it from her, to chase the taste out of her mouth by replacing it with the taste of _him_.

Instead he took the nearly-emptied chalice back, still silent, and forced himself to watch impassively as she convulsed and fell to her knees, whimpering between rasping breaths, fingers clawing at her closed eyes. Finally she succumbed, lying ominously motionless on the cold flagstones.

"From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden."

#

**AN**: Things to address…yes, for those who have read The Calling, they're _those_ daggers, although there's no canon basis for the 'significance' I have attached to them. Well, aside from coincidence, which happens to be the fanfic writer's best friend. Yes, we have _two_ origins here *glee* Not that it's particularly significant for ADV…

If it wasn't clear, Nora and Calla sort of split Daveth's share of the blood – the ritual requires a mouthful to be drunk as a minimum, but there's no real upper limit aside from making sure there's enough for everyone (and the pendants); a single tablet that can kill you isn't going to have a different effect if you take two (or more) of them – it might act a bit faster, or linger in the system post-mortem a bit longer, but it'll still kill you.

It strikes me as suspicious, in the game, how quickly Duncan pronounces you a grey warden (yes, I know it was probably done for dramatic effect). So, here you can read his 'foreknowledge' in one (or both) of two ways. Either the reaction to Alistair's words is some sort of final test, to see who _really_ understands what the grey wardens are and have to be for the sake of the untainted. Or Duncan (any senior warden/warden commander) is able to sense through his own taint when the Joining ritual 'takes'. Or a combination of both.

A note on the horses; they definitely _exist _in Ferelden, they're just not terribly common, but I imagine if anyone's going to have a horse it would be the nobility, which includes Cailan and Loghain. So, although it doesn't really have any impact on the grand scheme of things, I present Atlas and Nerys. Atlas is Loghain's courser, a piebald stallion of native Ferelden breed, prone to vocal tantrums when scenting a mare in heat (no prizes for guessing what Cian's distraction was xD). Nerys is Cailan's rouncey (a generic horse usually lighter and faster than a courser), a grey mare of Antivan breed (a gift), she's good-looking and she knows it, but she's very protective of her rider (think Arabian war-mare); alas, she didn't get a mention because it didn't fit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary**: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.

**Overall Rating for**: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)

**Overall Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; Dwarven Commoner Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Warden's Keep DLC information; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

**Other notes**: Last chapter folks; queue for anyone who wants to kill me starts over there…somewhere. Many, many thanks once more to Thessali for putting up with my long (compared to hers) chapters each week and doing such an excellent job of beta'ing.

_This Chapter_

**Rated for**: Not much this chapter.

**Spoilers for**: Human Noble Origin; Dwarven Commoner Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history

#

"I…you…_she knew_!" Alistair spluttered. "She _knew_ – you said _none_ of the recruits were to know!"

"Do you think her less worthy for knowing beforehand, for knowing and still facing the Joining?" Duncan kept his tone even, refusing to add fuel to the fire. Though the junior warden might not be aware of it, Duncan was sure that any anger was a strange blend of jealousy, fear and uncertainty.

Up until he had returned with Calla – not just a recruit, but a _lover_ – Alistair had been secure in his position as 'Duncan's' recruit. Now everything was set to change and change had very rarely been kind to the lad. If he wasn't allowed to express his concerns now, it was almost certain that resentment would set in, and fester, and that would do no one, least of all Alistair, any good at all.

"But you couldn't have known she'd still go through with it," the junior warden protested. "You don't know who else she might have told. How could you _trust_ her like that?"

The anguished, betrayed expression on Alistair's face showed his real, unspoken question – 'Why didn't you trust _me_ like that?'

"Alistair…"

"Is it because…because…" He stammered to a halt, blushing and refusing to meet Duncan's eyes, unable to spit the final words of his accusing query aloud.

"No, Alistair, it is _not_ because I happen to be sleeping with her. Calla already knew about the Joining before I met her." He wasn't lying – she'd known, literally, _of_ the Joining, and had guessed most of the details. He simply wasn't distressing Alistair any further by admitting that he _had_ filled in the details she hadn't known.

"What?" All the heat was gone from the blond's tone, replaced by pure shock. "How?"

"The Cousland family library. Records from Warden's Keep. It makes no difference now."

"No…no, I suppose not." Alistair sounded dazed, no doubt the result of having his argument cut off at the knees. "But still, she might have told _someone_."

Duncan couldn't help but chuckle, even though it caused Alistair to shoot him an indignant look. "The Joining isn't exactly the best kept secret of the order," he confessed. "True, it's almost unknown in Ferelden, but it's common knowledge in Orlais that you either become a grey warden or die, and I suspect in Antiva they know about the blood as well."

Alistair stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. "This has something to do with politics, doesn't it?" He asked with a grimace.

Duncan shook his head disapprovingly. "You would do well to stop avoiding everything remotely political…"

"Why? Every other _bastard_ gets to – why do I have to be the exception?" It was a poor joke – a sign of just how unsettled Alistair currently felt.

"There may come a day when you have no choice but to be the exception."

There was a long, tense silence.

"Aren't you going to move her, make her more comfortable?" Alistair asked, blatantly changing the subject. He gestured at Calla, lying in a crumpled heap like Nora, both lost in dark and twisted dreams of the archdemon. "I mean, she _is_ your…_with_ you, after all."

"She's also a junior warden – have no fear that I or anyone else will show her any favouritism." Duncan's tone was deliberately chastising, and Alistair had the grace to look slightly embarrassed, running a hand through his hair as he visibly tried to find the words to express himself. "I will still have time for you, Alistair, do not worry." He reassured the blond.

Alistair turned away, shoulders sagging, and Duncan couldn't tell whether it was in relief, resignation, or some other emotion. He hoped it was the former, feared that it wasn't. But when the blond turned to face him once more, his expression was back to the cheerful front that the rest of the world rarely saw beyond, only a faint tension around his eyes and a tightness to his lips suggesting that all was not as well as it appeared.

"You are right, however." Duncan said, deciding that there was nothing to be gained in continuing to pursue either Alistair's reluctance to discuss anything political, or his reaction to Calla. "We should make Nora and Calla as comfortable as we can, and dispose of the other bodies."

Duncan suited his actions to his words, crouching next to Calla and rolling her onto her back before awkwardly gathering her into his arms. She was wearing scale mail armour now, not the splintmail that she'd still been wearing on her return from the Wilds. She must have found time to change – and get her injured leg seen to – whilst he was mixing the blood for the chalice.

Lifting her was a challenge. She was the same height as him, her build slightly thicker – though not as dense with muscle as being a grey warden would make her over time – and coupled with the heavier armour and her unconscious dead weight, Duncan knew he only succeeded because of the extra strength the taint gave all wardens. Putting her down was going to be equally tricky, but he would manage, even if he was half convinced that he could hold her in his arms until she woke.

"Er," Alistair was kneeling next to Nora, wary and hesitant. "How likely is she to wake up whilst I'm carrying her, do you think?" He asked. "I mean, the fist in the face was bad enough when she thought I was trying to look down her armour. I don't want to _think_ what she'll do if she decides I'm taking advantage and trying to grope her…"

Duncan snorted wryly, having heard the tale of Alistair's black eye – healed now – from Brennan the previous day. "Don't worry, neither of them will wake for a while. Though the longer you wait…"

Alistair scooped Nora into his arms before Duncan finished speaking, rising and walking several steps before realising that he didn't know where he was supposed to be taking her. "Um…where are we putting them?"

"Over here." Duncan chuckled, walking over to where the worn flagstones were flattest. He knelt, carefully lowering Calla to the ground, using the excuse of seeing to her comfort to let his hands linger. He was aware of Alistair less-than-gracefully placing Nora down nearby, but his attention remained fixed on Calla, on the way her eyes were moving rapidly under her closed eyelids, the faint tension in her features that suggested her dreams were less than peaceful.

Her hair wasn't long enough to fall into her face, so the strands that he brushed away were purely imaginary. His fingers traced across her temple, across her cheek and down the line of her jaw to her chin, sliding lower to press against the pulse at her throat. He was glad he'd decided to leave his gauntlets off for the ritual, that he could _feel_ the visceral reassurance of her blood pumping through her veins.

A hesitant clearing of Alistair's throat alerted Duncan to the fact that the junior warden was…not quite watching him, he discovered when he looked across. "Yes, Alistair?"

The blond glanced over, his eyes flicking down to where Duncan's fingers still rested against Calla's neck, then back up, finally meeting the senior warden's gaze. "I'll, um…what do you want me to do with…the others?"

"There's neither time nor privacy for a ceremony of any kind." Duncan stood, slowly and more than a little reluctantly, but Alistair's question – the implied offer to do it alone, whatever needed doing – had reminded him of his duty. "_We_ will have to let the Wilds take them."

Alistair nodded, absently patting one of Nora's hands before he straightened from his crouch.

Quietly, giving the task all the solemnity that they could, Duncan and Alistair carried first Ser Jory's and then Daveth's corpse to the edge of the ruins and discarded them into the tangled undergrowth some feet below. It was clearly distasteful to the younger warden – a product of his chantry upbringing, no doubt – but he didn't flinch away from the task, or protest against it.

Bodies disposed of, all that remained was to create the pendants for Calla and Nora, a task that traditionally fell to the junior warden – mainly to keep them occupied and not fretting over the comatose forms of the successful recruits. It was a relatively simple process, but fiddly enough to require concentration, patience, and deft fingers. The latter, unfortunately, Alistair _didn't_ have, and rather than spill half the pendant's contents whilst trying to seal them shut, he instead passed them over to Duncan, who had both deft hands and past experience at closing the things.

But two pendants hardly took long to assemble, and there was nothing left to do but wait until Calla and Nora decided to awaken.

Nothing except _talk_, of course.

"So. Who do you think will wake up first?"

"Nora." Duncan's prompt reply seemed to surprise Alistair.

"Really?" Duncan saw him rub at the back of his neck. "I thought you'd say Calla."

"Why?" Duncan asked, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. "How soon a warden wakes after the Joining is no indication of anything. Except perhaps how quickly the taint spread through their body."

"Well, I guess I thought…I don't know."

"Typically dwarves will wake fastest, then elves, then humans, then qunari. But there are always exceptions, and they are difficult to predict."

Silence fell again, and again it was Alistair who broke it.

"How's it going to work – you and…her, I mean. Does she know? About the nightmares?"

"She knows." Duncan replied, somewhat curtly.

"Well, what a clever girl, she's a veritable _library_ all by herself. I wonder if there are any Grey Warden secrets that she _doesn't_ know?"

He rolled his eyes, mildly exasperated. "Alistair, I love you like a son, but –" Duncan was cut off by a forced laugh, devoid of real humour.

"Oh I _know_ you do. But, well, I've been here before - you have your own Isolde and _my_ presence is not really conducive to happily ever afters. I'll go see if anyone else wants a slightly-used ex-templar.."

And before Duncan could say anything else, Alistair was gone.

He let out a heavy sigh and wondered if he could have handled the situation any other way. Probably not, he decided. Clearly Alistair had been _looking_ for an argument, and his own choice of words – however honestly meant – had given the junior warden the perfect opening.

In some ways, although his timing was atrocious, this might actually turn out to be _beneficial_ for Alistair. His upbringing had hardly been 'normal', and a teenage strop – such as this – would have never have been tolerated by the chantry. Unfortunately, whilst Duncan wanted nothing more than to go after him, the recruits _couldn't_ be left alone. Not to mention that Alistair was very good at not being found when he didn't want to be.

#

Duncan didn't realise he'd drifted into a semi-trance, staring off to the south, towards the horde, until someone cleared their throat nearby, snapping him back into awareness of his immediate surroundings. He turned to find Marcus, hands clasped behind his back, expression resolute – as if fully expecting to find himself on the end of a lecture about 'making nice' with his fellow wardens. Duncan looked at him silently for a moment, watching as some of the defiance in the warrior's eyes faded into nervousness.

"Yes Marcus?"

"Brennan sent me with two messages." He paused, continuing when Duncan made a gesture for him to do so. "Firstly, battle is expected to be joined between one and two hours after dark; the king has requested that you attend a final strategy session at sundown. Secondly, Brennan says he will have a word with Alistair before then – something about _duty_."

For a moment Duncan considered making yet another attempt to break through the young warden's hard-headed attitude, then decided it was a battle for another day. Stubbornness was a good trait in a warden, but too much of it, or focussed in the wrong direction, it could quickly become as dangerous as any vice. Marcus had been searching for a purpose when he volunteered, and he gave short shrift to any other warden he considered to be less than wholly focussed on their 'duty' of eradicating darkspawn.

Fortunately he was the exception to the general temperament of the Ferelden wardens, and those who had to interact with him _off_ the battlefield tolerated him for the fact that _on_ it there were few better to have at your back or side.

"Thank you," Duncan acknowledged the messages, not letting his voice imply any of his thoughts about the tone of Marcus' delivery. "Since you are here," he picked up the two pendants, watching as the other warden's attention shifted and he took a step closer, hand starting to come up to accept the keepsakes, "perhaps you would be kind enough as to explain your outburst this morning."

Utterly wrong-footed, Duncan watched the younger warden's expression as it changed. Surprise – having not expected that particular request at that particular moment – anger, and finally a mulish expression accompanied by a defensive hunch of his shoulders.

"And if I don't feel like explaining?"

Duncan remained silent, expression giving no clue as to his thoughts. If Marcus really _didn't_ want to explain, well, it wasn't as if he'd been _ordered_ to. On the other hand, not explaining could reasonably be expected to count against him when it came to assigning camp chores.

"The Chasind took my sister," Marcus finally spat, glowering and refusing to meet Duncan's eyes, arms folded tightly across his chest.

"You do Cian a disservice in presuming all the Chasind are alike. They are a disparate people." Just as Loghain wrongly condemned all wardens for a decision that had, ultimately, been Maric's – but that was a thorny topic Duncan had no intention of bringing up with this particular warden. "Cian saved my life before he became a warden – I trust him implicitly."

"Yeah, and maybe that was fine before…" Marcus broke off to gesture in the direction of Nora and Calla. "You'll regret it – I've seen the way he looks at your woman, the way he's been cosying up to her. She's not exactly been fighting him off either…"

Duncan refused to voice the instant denial that sprang to his lips, instead forcing himself to consider Marcus' sly implications. It was true, Calla and Cian had been sitting _very_ close together when he'd seen them last night. It was also true that there'd been no real _need_ for them to be sat so close together, and that their silent communication – Calla's hand on Cian's shoulder – _could_ have implied something far more intimate than he believed. Then, this morning, Calla had ended up seated next to Cian again.

But whatever instinct or taint-driven impulse had made his blood boil at the thought of Calla and Cailan being in the same grey warden camp – never mind sitting next to one another – remained utterly dormant at the memory of Calla and _Cian_ sitting together. Just as it had made nary a protest at the time. And, vain though it might be, Duncan didn't think Calla had any cause to look elsewhere for 'companionship', not considering what she'd said about only walking away if he told her to. Besides, in all the years he'd known Cian, the mage had never, to his knowledge, pursued either a male or a female bedmate. For all the qualities he could see in her, Duncan didn't think Calla was so immediately striking as to change the habits of someone's lifetime – not in mere hours, anyway.

"I trust Cian," he repeated. "And I trust Calla. I trust all my wardens for that matter, including _you_. Should I start doubting my judgement now, when all these years that trust has never proven misplaced?" An outright lie, that last, but it wasn't as if Marcus was ever likely to be in a position to learn of the few 'rogue' wardens whose names had been stricken from the records, their lives snuffed out by the brothers they'd chosen to betray. By unspoken agreement, such traitors were never mentioned, their ultimate punishment not to die, but to be forgotten, their sacrifice discarded as the false offering they had made it.

"You know what you believe. I know what I saw." Marcus shrugged, expression disapproving, his body language struggling to match his 'couldn't care less' tone. "I guess time will tell."

"Perhaps," Duncan agreed, unable to avoid the brief thought that his time was rapidly running out. Too rapidly, all things considered, but then fate was rarely kind to those it touched, and to become a Grey Warden was to try and take fate's hand in your own, to try and strike a demon's bargain.

Nora chose that moment to stir, groaning and muttering dwarven curses as she awkwardly sat up, clasping her head in her hands.

"It is finished," Duncan murmured. "Welcome." He called to the dwarf, handing the pendants over to Marcus. "How do you feel?"

"Like a herd o' brontos just ran me down. Soddin' _Ancestors_." Nora choked out, still holding her head as if it was about to fall off. "Ain't seen visions so _real_ since that time Leske found an overripe patch of deep 'shrooms." She peered out from between her fingers, carefully looking around with bloodshot eyes. "Least there wasn't anything fer me to destroy…or did I get blondie an' 'er high-n-mightiness?"

"Visions?" Marcus blurted. "Don't you mean dreams?"

"Dreams?" Nora sneered back at him, the redness of her eyes only making her expression more intimidating. "Dwarva don't _dream_, cloudhead."

"I'm afraid dwarven Grey Wardens are not exempt from the dreams in question." Duncan interrupted smoothly. "They come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That, and many other things, can be explained in the months to come." Though not necessarily, he thought grimly, by him. He gestured to Marcus.

The no-longer-junior warden stepped towards Nora as she forced herself up onto two feet, her stubborn expression suggesting she was fighting the after-effects of the Joining. It placed the two of them within arms reach of one another, and left Marcus, as he stared down at her and held out the pendant, looking – rather unfortunately – as if he was peering down her armour. He didn't seem to realise how it appeared, or – if Alistair's tale was anything to go by – what danger he was in.

"We take some of the blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us of those who didn't make it this far."

"What about those who ain't goin' ta make it much farther?" Nora snarled, snatching the pendant.

Duncan moved quickly, intercepting the knee moving towards Marcus' groin with a deft hand and a disapproving expression as his presence forced the two apart.

"Save your violence for the darkspawn," he told her firmly. "You have some time before I let you know what your role in the coming battle will be. I suggest you make any preparations in terms of supplies, and be at the large bonfire near the Ash Warrior camp by sundown."

"Hmph. Sure – like I got anythin' better ta do." Nora grumbled, shooting Marcus a venomous look as she carefully – only weaving slightly – headed out of the temple ruins into the main camp.

"Bah! And Brennan says _I_ have an attitude problem!" Marcus groused – although Duncan noticed that he waited until Nora was out of earshot _and_ sight before speaking. "That attack was _entirely_ unprovoked."

It was on the tip of Duncan's tongue to suggest that maybe a _human_ had stolen _her_ sister. Perhaps fortunately, Calla gave a strangled moan behind him as she returned to consciousness, causing him to turn and smile at her in relief.

"It is finished. Welcome."

"Andraste's _arse_." Calla muttered, one hand pressed against her forehead as she lay on her back, squinting up at the darkening sky. "Which way is up again?"

"Dizzy?" He asked, amusement colouring his voice.

"Eh…" She slowly pushed herself upright, half leaning against a broken pillar once she was finally back on her feet. "It's fading. I'll be fine." She glanced up to give him quick grin, which turned into a wince as she moved her head too fast. "Feels like the time I didn't duck fast enough and Ser Gilmore knocked me halfway across the salle. I had a knot on the back of my head for _weeks_."

Marcus cleared his throat and stepped forward, eyes staring at a point somewhere over Calla's shoulder, proffered pendant barely within her reach. "The last part to the Joining – some of the blood from the ritual, placed in a pendant. A reminder of those who didn't make it all the way."

She took the pendant, shooting a bemused look at Duncan. "What happened to Nora?"

"She woke up a few minutes before you," he explained, then turned to Marcus. "Pass these messages on. To King Cailan; the Grey Wardens have two new junior wardens. To Brennan; meet at the bonfire near the Ash Warrior camp at half after sundown for a final strategy briefing. To Alistair; meet at the bonfire near the Ash Warrior camp at sundown. Please also let Brennan know that Calla and Nora are our new junior wardens, if he doesn't already know."

Marcus nodded, shot a brief, wary glance at Calla, and then hurried away.

"He seemed remarkably nervous for someone who had the balls to insult a mage this morning." Calla paused and seemed to consider her statement for a moment. "Or maybe not." With a dismissive shrug, she clasped the pendant around her neck, carefully tucking it inside her armour.

Duncan chuckled. "I think his nerves had more to do with Nora."

"Oh – I can sympathise with him there. She's…volatile." She grimaced. "A force to be reckoned with on the battlefield as well, although the term 'reckless' springs to mind." It was clearly her first time witnessing a berserker in combat.

"Assuming he survives the battle, she'll be Brennan's to train. He's already all but said as much. But now is not the time to discuss this." Duncan shook his head. "These were given to me shortly after my own Joining." He said, unbuckling the belt holding the silverite daggers at his waist and gesturing for Calla to move closer. "I want you to have them now." He murmured, leaning forward and embracing her briefly as he reached around her, then leaning back to fasten the belt securely at the front.

She touched the hilt of each dagger with a wondering expression on her face, experimentally drawing and then sheathing them again, but she was frowning as she looked back at him. "Thank you seems somehow inadequate, and I don't want to sound ungrateful, but why are you giving me these?"

"I remember asking exactly the same question." Duncan laughed. "So I shall give you the same answer I received. I have my own weapons and they have served me faithfully," he gestured at the sword and dagger hilts poking above his shoulders, "these weapons suit your fighting style – or one of them – and will find a better home with you, for, I hope, as many long years as a grey warden gets."

It was only when he saw the blood drain from her face that he realised the fear that he had inadvertently revealed.

"Duncan…" Calla's breath hitched and she swayed towards him, pressing her forehead against his, hands clutching at his shoulders. "I have no physical tokens to give you, but you should know, my heart will always be yours." Eyes falling closed, she kissed him, slow and tender and bittersweet.

He was silent for a moment after she drew back, watching her colour returning to give life to the resolute expression on her face. "I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king," he said finally, already knowing that she wouldn't refuse. Sure enough, she nodded.

"Very well. When and where?"

Glancing at the sky, he smiled wryly. "Now." Gesturing for her to precede him out of the temple ruins, Duncan fell into step with her. The tables set out to enable battle plans to be unrolled on them were obvious ahead of them, as was Cailan's voice, raised somewhat peevishly as he reiterated his plan to stand with the Grey Wardens in the coming battle.

"You risk too much, Cailan!" Loghain was insisting as Duncan and Calla skirted the edge of the tables to take up a position opposite the disagreeing men. "The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines."

Duncan folded his arms, stance mirrored by Calla to his right.

"If that's the case," Cailan snapped, "perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us after all." It was a low blow, precisely calculated to infuriate Loghain – it worked.

"I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!" Loghain snarled.

"It's not a 'fool notion.'" Cailan retorted. "Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past…" There was a pause as he seemed to realise that he was being sidetracked. "And you will remember who is _king_." He added, sounding rather like a sullen child.

Loghain, scowling furiously at the one argument he had no way to counter, turned away from the table, one gauntlet-clad hand rising to his forehead in a gesture of exasperation. "How fortunate," he growled, "Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!"

It was as calculated a low blow as Cailan's mention of the Orlesians had been, albeit rather more flimsy in its content. Duncan knew, as no doubt did Cailan, that _Maric_ had been the one to initiate peaceful relations between Ferelden and Orlais after regaining the throne from Meghren.

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" Cailan's voice was icy, but his expression softened as he turned, acknowledging the presence of the Grey Wardens with a nod. "Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, your Majesty."

"And two new wardens, I hear. Congratulations Lady Cousland."

Duncan tensed, yet the murderous rage he'd feared was absent. Had, in fact – now that he thought about it – been absent earlier as well, when he'd been contemplating Marcus's implications that Calla was closer to Cian than was appropriate.

"Thank you, your Majesty." Calla replied, "but I am _Lady Cousland_ no longer, merely Calla."

"Every Grey Warden is needed now. You should be honoured to join their ranks." Cailan continued, demonstrating his selective hearing.

"Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan." Loghain sneered, another man well-versed in the early warning signs of the king drifting into wild fantasies of his own grandeur. "We must attend to _reality_."

"Fine," Cailan sighed. "Speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then…?" He bent forward over the large map, thick black lines scrawled onto a less-than-realistic depiction of the ruins of the fortress. It was exactly the same diagram that Duncan had seen at each strategy meeting prior to this.

"You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signalling my men to charge from cover," Loghain answered, leaning forward and staring at the map as if he could see the battle playing out in the static image.

Duncan could almost see it himself, though whether his version and Loghain's version of events matched was another matter entirely. He was certain that _Cailan's_ version, if he was imagining the whole battle and not just the part where he ran in and defeated the horde single-handed, could be counted on to be the least likely.

"To flank the darkspawn, I remember." The king sounded like a young boy, trying to escape a boring and repetitive lesson by rushing to prove he already knew the subject. "This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes?" One metal-clad finger tapped at a point on the map. Duncan was reasonably sure that Cailan had just identified a guard tower to the west of the actual Tower of Ishal, but as long as the king wasn't trying to give anyone directions, it didn't matter much. "Who shall light this beacon?"

"I have a few men stationed there." Loghain stated, straightening up. "It's not a dangerous task, but it _is_ vital."

"Then we should send our best." Cailan announced, causing a suspicious frown to appear on Loghain's face. "Send Alistair and the newest Grey Wardens to make sure it's done." It wasn't a request.

"You rely on these Grey Wardens too much. Is that truly wise?" Loghain protested.

"Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain." Cailan sighed. "Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they're from."

"Your Majesty," Duncan interrupted, willing to risk rocking the boat slightly now that Cailan had upheld his promise to send Alistair and the junior wardens out of the main battle. "You should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing."

"There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds." Loghain immediately, and predictably, dismissed his concerns.

"Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?" Cailan seemed genuinely confused, as if he couldn't _see_, in _Loghain's_ battle plans, that the Grey Wardens were apparently there to die, attempting to funnel a horde – too big to flank, as Loghain's men were supposed to be doing – into a narrow gorge.

He probably couldn't.

"I…" Duncan hesitated, and realised that it was far too late to do more than hope for a miracle. Had been too late since the day Cailan had naively given Loghain free reign on the battle plans for the campaign. "Yes, your Majesty."

"Your Majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary." A mage, the Circle's liaison to the crown, spoke into the gap after Duncan's agreement. "The Circle of Magi –"

"We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage!" The revered mother, a severe woman in both looks and demeanour, interrupted him. "Save them for the darkspawn!"

"Enough!" Loghain snarled at the two of them. "This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon." The glance he shot at Duncan was faintly triumphant.

Damned if they did, Duncan thought wryly, and damned if they didn't. He could hear Loghain's accusations already; that the _Grey Wardens_ had failed to protect the king; that the _Grey Wardens_ had failed to hold and channel the horde; that the _Grey Wardens_ had failed to light the signal beacon in time. And there was nothing he could do or say to foil the Teyrn's plans – he could almost _feel_ fate grinding inexorably towards them.

"Thank you, Loghain." Cailan beamed. "I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!"

Loghain merely turned and walked away, shaking his head slightly.

With a nod to Cailan, Duncan touched Calla's elbow, gesturing with his head for her to follow him. She did so, ominously silent, her expression dark.

"What troubles you?" He asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"Everything." She replied, tone bleak. "I might not be the 'Hero of the River Dane', but even I can see that plan's doomed to failure. Is Cailan _blind_?"

"In this," Duncan admitted, "it seems so."

"I'd send men to die, _leave_ them to die – but never for _nothing_."

He remained silent, sympathetic to her righteous anger, but unwilling to fuel it. If – or more likely _when_ – Calla realised that there _was_ a reason, and concluded, as he suspected, that it was to eliminate the Grey Wardens… But Loghain _had_ pulled off seemingly suicidal tactics during Ferelden's rebellion against Orlesian rule. Duncan had to believe that, even if _most_ of the Grey Wardens were killed, and the rest denounced as traitors, they could at least inflict enough damage to the horde so as to buy the rest of Ferelden time to prepare. Time for the Orlesian Grey Wardens to send aid over the Frostback Mountains.

Still he doubted. The guttural murmur of the horde was thick in the back of his mind, the very air starting to grow heavy and oppressive as the blightstorm crept ahead of the massed darkspawn. He could not help but marvel at the common soldiers, faced with such a terrifying enemy, who were prepared to stand their ground, defiant to the end. Grey Wardens knew the darkspawn with a terrifying intimacy, they had no ignorance to shield them. Yet that same certainty of the evil they sought to destroy saved them from the terrors of their own imaginations – terrors born of fears all too personal, and thus frequently all the more potent than reality.

If the archdemon _did_ appear… The Grey Wardens would be too scattered to punch through the horde and reach it, even if the ballistae mounted high on the fortress ruins were able to cripple its wings and bring it to the ground. The battle would be over the moment it appeared; the darkspawn would not relent with the Old God driving them, no matter how many the army managed to kill.

Calla was still brooding, arms folded and staring more at the ground in front of her feet than where they were going, when they reached the bonfire near the Ash Warrior camp. Alistair, Nora and Brennan were all there, waiting.

"No change." Brennan stated as Duncan approached. "Told you there wouldn't be." He shook his head, grin more than half grimace. "Should've made it a wager."

"You know I wouldn't have taken it." Duncan replied quietly.

"Aye." Brennan gave him a curt nod. "I'll be off then." He paused, glanced at Alistair and the junior wardens, and seemed to decide better of whatever he'd been going to say. "See you on the other side."

Without further ado the senior warden strode away, heading for the location where he and half of the order would make their stand. If any of the wardens directly involved in the battle stood a chance of surviving, it was those on the east defences – the side from which Loghain's men were meant to flank the horde – precisely why Duncan had set his Second in charge of that side.

A cold, _old_ feeling swept over Duncan, as if every one of his tainted years were pressing down on him. With a shiver he stepped closer to the fire, barely aware of its warmth against his back as he turned to face the three wardens that were his 'insurance'. Such a heavy burden to risk passing on to such inexperienced wardens, and yet he believed they could shoulder it, beyond all expectations, simply because their enemies would inevitably underestimate them. There was no give, no surrender, to be found in either Nora or Calla, and they would drag Alistair along with them, kicking and screaming if necessary.

"Alistair; you, Nora and Calla are to go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit when the signal is given."

"What?" The blond exclaimed immediately. "I won't be in the battle?"

"This is by the king's personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain's men won't know when to charge."

"So he needs _three Grey Wardens_ standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?" Alistair protested sarcastically.

"Aye – we should be in the battle." Nora agreed fiercely. "Send 'er nobleness if one of us gotta go."

"It is not your choice." Duncan reiterated. "If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there." Though Calla had said nothing, he included her in the hard look he gave the other two. "We must do _whatever_ it takes to destroy the darkspawn…exciting or no."

"I get it. I get it." Alistair huffed. "Just so you know," he added, "if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no."

"I don't know." Calla disagreed, expression a shade too amused for her thoughtful look to seem genuine. "That could be a great distraction."

"Me shimmying down the darkspawn line?" Alistair chuckled. "Sure, we could kill them while they roll around laughing."

Nora sniggered. "I think I'd like ta see _that_."

Alistair made a face at her. "It'd have to be an _armoured_ dress then – you do recall I said I'm _not_ getting injured around you?"

Duncan sighed, and fought down the urge to demand they take the situation seriously. There was nothing wrong with lightening the moment with humour, and he was certain that all three were at least subconsciously aware that things were dire indeed.

"The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king's camp, the way you came when you arrived. You'll need to cross the gorge and head through the gate and up to the tower entrance. From the top, you'll overlook the entire valley."

"When do we light the beacon?" Calla asked, frowning.

"We will signal you when the time is right. You know what to look for Alistair?"

"Cian's fireball." Alistair answered, nodding. The irony of the fact that they would be using a mage to signal the tower, when a similar offer from the Circle mages had been firmly denied, was not lost on Duncan.

"Tell me we can at least join the soddin' battle after the beacon's lit." Nora demanded, scowling.

Duncan shook his head. "Stay with the teyrn's men and guard the tower. If you are needed, we will send word." Not that three extra Grey Wardens were going to turn the tide of _this_ battle. The Blight, on the other hand…

"What if the archdemon appears?" The dwarf asked, expression outraged.

"We soil our drawers, that's what." Alistair interjected, earning himself a contemptuous sneer from Nora and an amused snort from Calla.

"If it does, leave it to us." Duncan wasn't sure his words would be heeded if it came to it, but they _were_ Grey Wardens, and he wouldn't patronise them by telling them to get to safety if the archdemon showed up. "I want no heroics from any of you." He stared hardest at Calla, willing her to understand, to read the meaning between the lines of his words.

"I know what I have to do." Calla's expression was tight, her voice resolute. She already knew the particular pain of surviving, living thanks to the sacrifice of others. Duncan hated that he had to be thankful that she was willing to face that prospect once more.

"Not as dumb as you look, eh?" Nora sneered. "Go to tower, climb tower, light the soddin' beacon when blondie says, then sit around with our thumbs up our arses 'til the fun's over."

"What she said," Alistair agreed, "except the bit about thumbs." He added when Duncan raised an amused eyebrow at him.

"The battle will begin soon," Duncan decided, the horde's proximity throbbing in his veins, calling him to the fight. _Calling_ him. "Once I leave, move quickly. You'll have less than an hour." Probably _much_ less than an hour, but surely long enough to cross the gorge and ascend the tower itself. "From here, you three are on your own. Remember, you are all Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title."

"Duncan…" Alistair hesitated, expression torn. "May the Maker watch over you." He said at last, voice thick with emotion.

"May he watch over us all."

Alistair nodded. Then, shooting a glance at Calla, he daringly caught at Nora's elbow, pulling her far enough aside to at least give Duncan the illusion of privacy.

"Calla…" She silenced him with a kiss, fiercer but no less bittersweet than the one they'd shared after her Joining.

"I know." She whispered as their lips parted. "I _know_."

"You should have these." He murmured, pulling the bundled treaties and letters from his belt pouch. "Just in case; the treaties and…a number of letters to be delivered if the warden named on the back falls in the battle."

She took them, tucked them away in her own pouch. "Duncan…"

"I know." He smiled slightly as he stole her words, cupping her cheek in his bare hand – gauntlets not replaced since the Joining ritual, an oversight he couldn't help but be thankful for now. Pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips, he pulled away from her, unhooking his gauntlets from his belt and pulling them into place. "See you on the other side."

"One day, we will join _you_." She whispered in response, tears shimmering in her eyes, but refusing to fall.

With a last, regretful smile, Duncan strode away from her, towards the horde, and his fate.

He didn't look back once.

#

**AN:** Well, it's been an interesting road, walking in Duncan's shoes, and I have to admit I love the character all the more for it. Sorry to everyone who was hoping I'd somehow orchestrate Duncan's survival beyond Ostagar, but right from the start of the fic I always knew it was going to end (more or less) exactly where and how the game ends things. If you prefer to imagine that Duncan somehow survived past Ostagar in the game, the ending of this fic should be similarly vague enough for you to continue to imagine that.

I'm glad people seem to have enjoyed this fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I was petrified that my Cousland was going to be universally hated, and that all my characters were dreadfully one-dimensional and stereotyped. My beta, Thessali (the most awesome beta ever - and I'm not saying that just because she's the only beta, aside from myself, that I've ever had), has been absolutely invaluable in (sometimes inadvertently) reassuring me that I haven't invented a cast of Grey Warden Gary Stu's, as well as giving me the occasional (deserved) thick ear about the characterisation of canon characters (Alistair in particular).

I may post a few different, related, pieces at some unspecified later date. They won't be a 'sequel' as such, but will include scenes from points of view _other_ than Duncan's; behind the scenes of ADV, and off to one side of ADV scenes. They may also include scenes involving the rest of the game plot and how I envision things changing with three Grey Wardens and the particular approaches to situations that they take. Don't hold your breath for them though - I'd like to take a breather from posting for a while :P On the other hand, do feel free to make suggestions for anything that seemed unclear or as if _something_ happened 'off camera' that you never got to see and would like to. I can't guarantee that they'll get written, but you never know :D

And last, but by no means least, a big 'thank you' to everyone who's reviewed, whether you did so logged in (I'll always reply to a signed review...eventually xD), or not. I appreciate you all immensely; your reviews make my day when I receive them, even if they're only a single word long!


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